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EDITED BY 

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TEACHERS COLLEGE, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 


MRS. GASKELL 
CRANFORD 


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Mrs. Gaskell 

From the portrait by (i. Richmond, R.A. 


Cbe Scribner iBnglisb Classics 


ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL 

1/ 


CRANFORD 


EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
BY 

KATHERINE E. FORSTER 

EASTERN NORMAL SCHOOL, KENTUCKY 


NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
1910 


Copyright, 1910, by 
Charles Scribner’s Sons 



©CLA261126 


PREFATORY NOTE 


^HE text of this classic reprints that of the standard edition 
published by Messrs. Smith, Elder & Company. Cran- 
ford was first published in nine numbers of Household Words , 
the weekly journal edited by Charles Dickens. It had not then 
received its title of Cranford, and Dickens seems himself to have 
supplied, with kindly pen, the titles to the nine parts: — De- 
cember 13, 1851 — “Our Society at Cranford” (chaps. I, n); 
Christmas — “A Love Affair at Cranford” (chaps, hi, iv); 
February 28, 1852 — “Memory at Cranford” (chaps, v, vi); 
March 20, 1852 — “Visiting at Cranford” (chaps, vn, vm); 
January 8 and 15, 1853 — “The Great Cranford Panic” (chaps. 
ix-xi); April 2 — “Stopped Payment, at Cranford” (chaps, xn, 
xiii); May 7 — “Friends in Need, at Cranford” (chap, xiv); 
May 21 — “A Happy Return to Cranford” (chaps, xv, xvi). 

The original manuscript was practically as we read the book 
to-day, but, before Dickens let it go to press, he crossed out all 
mention of his own name, of the Pickwick Papers , and of the 
Christmas Stories, substituting Hood, Hood's Own, and Miss 
Kilmansegg and Her Golden Leg. When, in June, 1853, Mrs. 
Gaskell collected these nine sketches under the title, Cranford, 
she replaced all allusions to Dickens and his works. Aside from 
changing Miss Matey to Miss Matty, and revising an intro- 
ductory or concluding paragraph now and again, no further 
changes were made. 

Ten years later, Mrs. Gaskell wrote another of these Cranford 
papers for Dickens’s All the Year Round, a weekly with which 
Household Words had been incorporated some years earlier. 
This was called The Cage at Cranford. 

In the preparation of the Notes of this edition the editor 
is greatly indebted for valuable assistance to Miss Lizette 
Andrews Fisher. 



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CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PREFATORY NOTE v 

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY viii 

INTRODUCTION: 

I. Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell ix 

II. “ Cranford ” xvi 

III. Chronological List of Mrs. Gaskell’s Writ- 
ings xxviii 

Text: “CRANFORD” 3 

NOTES 177 

APPENDIX 200 

INDEX TO NOTES 205 




r 

. Ca <^5 

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 


O 


Editions: 

Smith, Elder & Co. Edition of 1873. The earliest publica- 
tion of Mrs. GaskeH’s collected works. 

Knutsford edition. Edited by A. W. Ward. 

Macmillan edition. Cranford. Edited by A. T. Ritchie. 
Illustrated by Hugh Thompson. 

Life and Criticism: 

Ward, Adolphus Wm. Article on Mrs. Gaskell in The Dic- 
tionary of National Biography. 

Minto, William. The Novels of Mrs. Gaskell, in The Fort- 
nightly Review, 1878. 

Houghton, Lord. Mrs. Gaskell, in the Pall Mall Gazette, 
November 14, 1865. 

More, Paul Elmer. Series V of Shelburne Essays. 

Bayly, Ada Ellen (Edna Lyall). Women Novelists of Queen 
Victoria’s Reign, pp. 117-118. 

Jenkyns, Howard M. The Real Cranford, in the Ladies’ 
Home Journal. Vol. 18, No. 11, p. 9. May, 1901. 

Walker, Hugh. The Age of Tennyson, p. 108. 

Cross, Wilbur L. The Development of the English Novel, 
p. 234. 

Lowe, Frances H. Mrs. Gaskell’s Short Tales, Fortnightly 
Review, Vol. 72, pp. 633-644. 

Green, Henry. Knutsford, A History. 

Payne, Rev. Geo. A. Mrs. Gaskell and Knutsford. 

Shorter, Clement. Mrs. Gaskell, English Men of Letters 
Series. (Announced.) 

Bibliography: 

Axon, Wm. E. A., and Axon, Ernest. London, 1895. Origi- 
nally prepared for the Manchester Literary Society, 
viii 


INTRODUCTION 

I— ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL 

T AST summer as I wandered about the one-time haunts of 
Mrs. Gaskell, in Knutsford, I happened on several- of the 
older people who had known her and on many younger ones 
who were glad to tell of relatives who had met and talked to that 
interesting, useful woman. All spoke of her with a feeling of 
ownership, a joyful pride. One old lady, who walked with me 
to the exact house that was once Miss Matty’s tea-shop, assured 
me that Mrs. Gaskell was never one to forget old friends. One 
and all agreed that she wore a ready smile as she went about 
doing good. 

That word good is written in the delicate, refined features of 
Mrs. Gaskell’s high-souled face. In her youth Mrs. Gaskell’s 
form and face appealed to the painter and the sculptor, and we 
have artistic proof that in her maturer years this attractiveness 
was still an abiding quality. A marble bust in the Christie 
library of Owens College, Manchester, suggests the beauty of 
her young womanhood, while a bas-relief in bronze by R. H. 
Watt, on the front of the Knutsford post-office, shows her ap- 
pearance a year or so before her death. In the marble figure, 
the upward glancing face speaks of joy and hope; in the bronze, 
the face, still beautiful in a mature way, expresses deep medita- 
tion. In the well-known portrait by Richmond, belonging to 
a middle period, the face is marked by the pensive sweetness 
born of years of kindly thoughts and deeds. In all her photo- 
graphs, that kind but firm mouth, that open brow, those bright, 
animated hazel eyes bespeak a culture, a kindness, and a 
sympathy which made the world better because she lived. 
Rich and poor found her manner unaffected and simple. The 
testimony of the men and women still living who have felt the 
warm clasp of her hand, the steady, faithful look of her eyes, and 

ix 


X 


CRANFORD 


the melodious tones of her voice, agrees with the witness she 
bears of herself in her books. How came this woman by such 
winsomeness in appearance and character? Who were her 
ancestors? What her environment? 

On September 29, 1810, Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson was 
born in Lindsey Row, a part of Cheyne Walk in Chelsea, 
London. In this neighborhood dwelt Thomas Carlyle, the 
friend of her later life. Her father, William Stevenson, was a 
man of .intellect and of some ability as a writer, who had edited 
at one time “The Scots Magazine,” and afterward “The Annual 
Register,” and had written freely for reviews on subjects relating 
to commerce, agriculture, and education. In his time he had 
played many parts, for, although at the date of Elizabeth’s birth 
he had settled into the position of Keeper of the Records to the 
Treasury in London, he had been classical tutor at Manchester 
Academy, Unitarian minister, and farmer. Her mother, 
Elizabeth Holland, daughter of Mr. Holland of Sandlebridge, 
near Knutsford, died a month after her child’s birth. Shortly 
after her mother’s death, Elizabeth was taken to her maternal 
aunt, Mrs. Lumb, of Knutsford in Cheshire. This aunt’s life 
had been saddened by an unhappy marriage and by the affliction 
of her only child, who developed into a hopeless cripple. The 
three dwelt in an old red house on the edge of the town, over- 
looking the Heath. Although hampered by limited means, 
Mrs. Lumb made the lives of both children fairly sunny. And 
there was always the garden — an old-fashioned English garden 
crammed with flowers. After her own child’s death, although 
her love for Elizabeth deepened with the years, the big red 
house was a sad and gloomy home for a little girl. This singu- 
larly solitary life developed in Elizabeth faculties, fancies, and 
powers of observation too often frittered away where the en- 
vironment might seem more genial. 

We need only to read Mrs. Gaskell’s books to know that the 
restricted life of her childhood and young girlhood was spent in 
mental activity. Instead of the melancholy and loneliness that 
would have grown with the growth of a dull mind, a people of 
the imagination dwelt all about this girl who created a world 
of her own beyond Mrs. Lumb’s restrictions. In her fanciful 


INTRODUCTION 


xi 


ramblings she lived over again her baby journey from London, 
which she has described in “Mary Barton”; she lived on into 
the future; — and so, almost always alone, yet never alone, she 
dwelt in her own world of visions. 

In “Cousin Phyllis,” the stately, gracious young woman of 
seventeen, in the dress and with the simplicity of a child, who 
has passed childhood and girlhood in the companionship of her 
unworldly father, and of books anything but childlike — Vergil 
and Dante, for instance — is really a picture of the beautiful 
Elizabeth Stevenson about the time she went to a private school 
at Stratford. As Phyllis lived alone with her parents, her 
books, and her imaginings, interrupted by an occasional word 
or so with some of her father’s parishioners, so Elizabeth Steven- 
son dwelt apart from the world. These were her “forty years 
in the wilderness,” in which ripened that insight into life that 
marked her when she took her place as a woman among men and 
women. 

Of this early period the only incidents recorded were short 
visits to her mother’s relatives about Knutsford, particularly 
Dr. Peter Holland, and to her father in Chelsea, who had 
married a second time and unhappily. Mrs. Ritchie speaks 
charmingly of this phase of Mrs. Gaskell’s life: “I have heard 
that Mrs. Gaskell was not always quite happy in those days — 
imaginative children go through many phases and trials of their 
own — in her hours of childish sorrow and trouble she used to 
run away from her aunt’s house across the Heath and hide her- 
self in one of its many green hollows, finding comfort in the 
silence, and in the company of birds and insects and natural 
things. But at other times she had delightful games of play 
with her cousins in the sweet old family house at Sandlebridge, 
where so many Hollands in turn had lived.” 

Two years of her girlhood were spent at Miss Byerley’s 
school at Stratford-on-Avon, where she studied Latin, French, 
and Italian. She then lived for two years in Chelsea with her 
father and stepmother (an unhappy memory). There she read 
eagerly such poets as Scott, Goldsmith, Pope, and Cowper. 
When at the end of two years, her father died, she went back to 
Knutsford and Aunt Lumb, to migrate again, however, at cer- 


XU 


CRANFORD 


tain seasons, during the next three years. One visit was to 
Edinburgh, which gave her the experiences recorded in “My 
Lady Ludlow”; another was to Newcastle-on-Tyne, to the 
family of William Turner, a Unitarian minister of great learning, 
who was probably the original of Mr. Benson in “Ruth.” So 
the time sped on from girlhood to womanhood. At twenty-two, 
when Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson married the accomplished 
and lettered William Gaskell, minister to the Cross Street 
Unitarian Chapel, Manchester, she was an acknowledged 
beauty. 

With this marriage the setting of Mrs. Gaskell’s life story 
changed from the Heath at Knutsford to Dover Street in Man- 
chester. Mr. Gaskell was a close student of the Lancashire 
dialect and delivered scholarly lectures on it as well as on 
English literature, history, and logic. No doubt Mrs. Gaskell 
benefited by his knowledge when she came to use the folk- 
speech so freely and effectively in her novels. A favorite 
subject with Mr. Gaskell was the “ Poets and Poetry of Humble 
Life.” The following quotation from a letter to one of the 
Howitts shows that both Mr. and Mrs. Gaskell found poetry in 
the lives of the poor people about them: “We once thought of 
trying to write sketches among the poor, rather in the manner of 
Crabbe (now don’t think this is presumptuous), but in a more 
seeing-beauty spirit; and one — the only one — was published in 
‘Blackwood’s,’ January, 1837. But I suppose we spoke our plan 
near a dog-rose, for it never went any further.” The next year 
Mrs. Gaskell tried her ’prentice hand at descriptive writing, and 
her account of Clopton Hall was later published in William 
Howitt’s “Visits to Remarkable Places.” After that there was 
a long pause during which Mrs. Gaskell co-operated in her 
husband’s professional work. Meanwhile she observed life 
about her. Her interest in poor folk was not a sentimental 
surface emotion, for hers was practical philanthropy. She was 
ever ready to go into the home of sickness or sorrow as a helpful 
friend. Not rare was it to find her the centre of a group of 
factory girls in her own home, where the sewing lesson was 
merely an introduction to an intimate companionship which 
sought to raise their standards of living. Throughout these 


INTRODUCTION 


xiii 

twelve years of Mrs. Gaskell’s early married life, we get the 
impression, not only of an ideal wife and mother, but of a pure- 
minded, unselfishly benevolent woman. 

The artist in Mrs. Gaskell remained latent until her thirty- 
fourth year. “Mary Barton,” her first novel, was cradled in 
affliction. In 1844, while on a visit to Festiniog in North Wales, 
her only boy, Willie, died from scarlet fever. Grief threatened 
to undermine Mrs. Gaskell’s health, when her husband, by a 
happy chance, suggested writing as an escape from herself. Hav- 
ing once begun, she wrote with the pen of a ready writer, and 
completed the novel in a comparatively short time. The idea 
of writing “Mary Barton” is said to have come to Mrs. Gaskell 
in a workman’s cottage. The occupant asked her whether she 
had ever seen a child “clemmed” to death. In that time of 
famine and distress Mrs. Gaskell’s mind demanded a solution 
of the social problems of her city. This earnestness of hers is 
the secret of the book’s power. Its author had studied the politi- 
cal economists. It was clear to her that, aside from economic 
laws, there was something grievously wrong in a state of things 
which permitted whole families to starve. She set about draw- 
ing popular attention to the contrasting conditions in the lives 
of rich and poor, the employers and the employed. Around 
this motive she grouped her characters and developed her plot. 
So in “Mary Barton,” along with its love-making and tragic 
incidents, Mrs. Gaskell gives a truthful reflection of the social 
conditions about her. In those Greenhay fields, rich in memo- 
ries of the childhood of De Quincey, Mrs. Gaskell introduces 
her readers to John Barton, the main figure of the book, and to 
Mary Barton, his daughter; but after that peaceful May evening 
scene, we wander no more in green fields, but in narrow, ham- 
pered, little paved courts, “having the backs of houses at the 
end opposite the opening, and a gutter running through the 
middle to carry off household slops, washing suds, etc.” Mrs. 
Gaskell takes us to many cellar dwellings, squalid, unsanitary, 
and typhoid-breeding. That few, if any, of these revolting 
underground places are now allowed, is partly the result of the 
influence of this novel, in which keen sorrow and mental struggle 
brought Mr. Carson, the typical mill-owner of the book, to the 


XIV 


CRANFORD 


conclusion that both masters and men must recognize their 
mutual obligations and be charitable in their relations with 
each other. 

At first the manuscript of “Mary Barton” fared badly. The 
first publishers to whom it was submitted, rejected it; another 
firm returned it unread; Messrs. Chapman and Hall, after 
holding it for a year, during which time the writer almost ceased 
to give it a thought, offered' one hundred pounds for the copy- 
right, thereby making a lucky stroke for themselves. But when 
the reading public got “Mary Barton” its success was electrical. 
When the anonymous writer became known, many hostile 
critics in the interest of the manufacturer or mill-owner attacked 
her. Compensation was more than meted out to her in the 
warm admiration of such men as Carlyle, Charles Kingsley, 
Ruskin, Landor, Jowett, Dean Stanley, and Dickens. Dickens 
was especially delighted, and in the May following the year of 
“Mary Barton’s” publication, when he gave a dinner to com- 
memorate the appearance of the first number of his “David 
Copperfield,” Thackeray, Carlyle, and Mrs. Gaskell were 
honored guests. In Dickens’s “Household Words,” “North 
and South ” made its first appearance. To me it is more interest- 
ing than the widely popular “Mary Barton.” If one were rank- 
ing Mrs. Gaskell’s writings, that little sketch, “ Cousin Phyllis,” 
so perfect in technique, so sunny in its humor, so tender in its 
pathos, would also stand very high. 

This master worker seems also to have found time for her 
home, time for her husband’s interests, time to train her daugh- 
ters carefully, time to write, and time for her friends. Charlotte 
Bronte expressed more surprise at this social kindliness of Mrs. 
Gaskell than at any other of her traits. The explanation is that 
Mrs. Gaskell had an active intellect, a sunny disposition, and a 
happy home. These possessions, with her natural dignity, 
grace, and power as a conversationalist, bound to her “with 
hoops of steel” the friends who came under the spell of her 
personality. Three years before her son Willie’s death she had 
met William and Mary Howitt on the Rhine; a life-long corre- 
spondence is a proof of their lasting friendship. For Dickens 
and his work, Mrs. Gaskell continually expressed admiration. 


INTRODUCTION 


xv 


All her friendships attest her faithfulness and truth. Her love 
of Charlotte Bronte was no less than her pity. Where could 
more marked contrasts in temperament and in literary style 
be found ? One may level at their affection, when one remem- 
bers that Charlotte Bronte delayed the publication of “ Villette” 
to avoid comparison with Mrs. Gaskell’s “Ruth”; that Mrs. 
Gaskell and her husband were present at the quiet wedding of 
Miss Bronte and Mr. Nichols in 1857; that, after Charlotte 
Bronte’s death, her father earnestly desired and prevailed upon 
Mrs. Gaskell to write a biography of his famous daughter. 

Mrs. Gaskell worked with untiring energy to render a true 
account of her extraordinary friend. Nevertheless, a hornet’s 
nest came about her ears before the “Life of Charlotte Bronte” 
was many months from the press. So much was she worried by 
contradictions and corrections (nearly all the interested persons 
were yet alive) that a temporary distaste for writing grew upon 
her. Yet Professor A. W. Ward says of her biography: “The 
substantial accuracy of the pictures drawn by Mrs. Gaskell of 
her heroine’s life and character, and of the influences exercised 
upon them by her personal and local surroundings, has not 
yet been successfully impugned. As to her literary skill and 
power and absolute uprightness of intention as a biographer 
there cannot be two opinions. She expressly disclaimed having 
made an attempt at psychological analysis; but she was excep- 
tionally successful in her endeavor to bring before her readers 
the picture of a very peculiar character and altogether original 
mind.” 

Mrs. Gaskell’s joy of writing came back to her, and, when her 
strength began to fail in 1865, she was well toward the end of 
“ Wives and Daughters,” which was appearing in serial form in 
the “Cornhill Magazine.” The setting of this book is again her 
dear “adopted native” town, Knutsford. She was staying at 
Alton in Hampshire in a house which she had purchased as a 
surprise for her husband, when, on a Sunday afternoon in 
November, 1865, while she sat at the table talking with some 
of her family, suddenly — 

“God’s finger touched her and she slept.” 


XVI 


CRANFORD 


They laid her away near the home of her childhood and girlhood 
in the little graveyard beside the old Unitarian Chapel at Knuts- 
ford. Into her own life “ happiness and sorrow came in strong 
patches of light and shade.” The sympathetic power of her 
generous spirit made life more of a joy and less of a sorrow for 
many a Manchester working family. She took people as she 
found them and did them all good. 

II— “ CRANFORD ” 

A classic is a bit of literature that is always contemporary. 
Mrs. Gaskell’s “Cranford” is a classic. Who does not find a 
familiar friend among these Cranford ladies who put us in love 
with human nature, whatever its foibles and vanities? The 
natural comment is — not what a belated community Knutsford, 
the Cranford of our story, must have been — but I’ve been in just 
such a sleepy old place with just such old-fashioned, innocent, 
self-respecting, eccentric old women! The personal so pre- 
dominates over the local that each reader has a Cranford. 
Mine is an out-of-date, aristocratic little Canadian town some 
thirty miles from where I sit. Where is yours ? Turn with me 
from the Cranford of your vision to a brief appreciation of the 
author’s Cranford — that region of the idyllic where, together, 

“We’ll light upon some settled low content.” 

Prose Idyll is my answer to the question, To what type or 
class of writing does “ Cranford ” belong ? Critics have classified 
it as a sketch of aristocratic life, a local color story, a character 
study, a story of manners, a bit of gentle satire, a something 
midway between a novel or short tale and a descriptive sketch 
or essay. It is all of these and something more. Mrs. Gaskell 
wrote out herself when she wrote “Cranford.” All her life 
she had known and loved these kindly, simple-minded people. 
Again and again she had returned to them for rest and refresh- 
ment. Yet at no time was she blind to the humor of their lives. 
-She got down into their very souls and she calls us to share their 
emotions and hers. She copied no writer; she conformed to 


INTRODUCTION 


XVII 


no type or class of writing. Listen to her own words: “I 
believe the art of telling a story is born with some people.” 
Then remember what she wrote to Ruskin: “It is the only one 
of my books that I can read again ; but sometimes, when I am 
ailing or ill, I take ‘ Cranford ’ and laugh over it afresh.” “ Cran- 
ford” is, then, a prose idyll. An idyll, according to the Oxford 
Dictionary, is a short poem descriptive of some picturesque 
scene or incident, chiefly in rustic life. A prose idyll is a prose 
composition treating subjects of the same kind in a poetic style. 
The word idyllic is defined, by the same dictionary, as follows: 
“Full of natural simple charm or picturesqueness.” These defi- 
nitions apply to “Cranford.” Two writers appeal to me pecul- 
iarly because of this natural, simple charm. When my world 
seems to me to be going at sixes and sevens, I want to shut my- 
self away for a time, to hear the rain and wind at my windows, 
to find a comfortable chair before an open wood fire, and to be 
left alone with “Cranford” or “The Essays of Elia.” Perhaps 
no particular sentence or quality of style in the one suggests the 
other, yet both “take hold of things by the better handle,” and 
each one has power to dispel the mists of melancholy. Call to 
mind the pathetic side of Charles Lamb as it expresses itself in 
his “Dream Children.” “We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor 
are we children at all. . . . We are nothing; less than nothing, 
and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must 
wait upon the tedious shore of Lethe millions of ages before 
we have existence and a name.” Turn now to a firelight scene, 
part reverie, part conversation, during which Miss Matty says 
to Mary Smith her young companion : “ I never was ambitious, 
but I thought I could manage a house (my mother used to call 
me her right hand) and I was always so fond of little children, 
the shyest babies would stretch out their little arms to come to 
me; when I was a girl I was half my leisure time nursing in the 
neighboring cottages; but I don’t know how it was, when I grew 
sad and grave, which I did a year or two after this time — the 
little things drew back from me, and I am afraid I lost the 
knack, though I am just as fond of children as ever, and have 
a strange yearning at my heart whenever I see a mother with a 
baby in her arms. Nay, my dear (and by a sudden blaze which 


XV111 


CRANFORD 


sprang up from a fall of the tears — gazing intently on some vision 
of what might have been) — do you know I dream sometimes that 
I have a little child — always the same — a little girl of about two 
years old; she never grows older, though I have dreamt about 
her for many years. I don’t think I ever dream of any words 
or sounds she makes; she is very noiseless and still,- but she 
comes to me when she is very sorry or very glad, and I have 
wakened with the clasp of her dear little arms around my neck. 
Only last night — perhaps because I had gone to sleep thinking 
of this ball for Phoebe — my little darling came in my dream and 
put up her mouth to be kissed, just as I have seen real babies 
do to real mothers before going to bed. But this is all nonsense, 
dear! only don’t be frightened by Miss Pole from being married. 
I can fancy it may be a very happy state, and a little credulity 
helps one through life very smoothly — better than always doubt- 
ing and doubting and seeing difficulties and disagreeables in 
everything.” Surely the gentle Elia and dear Miss Matty are 
akin in their dream worlds. 

The critic who labels “Cranford” a tale of aristocratic life 
speaks truly. “We none of us spoke of money, because that 
subject savored of commerce and trade, and though some might 
be poor, we were all aristocratic.” The stupidly selfish Mrs. 
Jamieson is the acknowledged liege lady of the Amazons. No 
character, in or out of the aristocratic sisterhood, ever forgot its 
little social gradations and harmless pretences. Mrs. Gaskell 
writes from the point of view of that sisterhood, yet always with a 
gentle satire that shows she was one with yet not wholly of them. 
In telling her story, Mrs. Gaskell, unlike George Eliot, marks 
no exact time, although the references to Dickens’s “ Pickwick 
Papers” and Tennyson suggest the end of the third and the 
beginning of the fourth decade of the nineteenth century as her 
time setting. The place is Knutsford idealized. The time and 
the place both refuse to be pinned down like butterflies in a 
glass case, and we are glad that it is so, for each likes best his 
own Cranford. Compare your picture with that of the fol- 
lowing account of Knutsford by Mrs. Anne Thackeray Ritchie: 

“From the main street several narrow courts and passages 
lead to the other side of the little town, the aristocratic quarter, 


INTRODUCTION 


xix 


where are the old houses with their walled gardens. One of 
these passages runs right through the Royal George Hotel, 
itself leading from the shadow into the sunshine, where a goat 
disports itself, and one or two ladies seem passing with quiet 
yet rapid steps — the inhabitants of Knutsford do not saunter. 
My friend the shopwoman told us she had a beautiful garden 
at the back of her old ancient place; all the houses in Knutsford 
have gardens, with parterres beautifully kept, and flowers in 
abundance. ... As we entered the Royal George Hotel out 
of the dark street, we came upon a delightful broadside of shin- 
ing oak staircase and panelled wainscoat. Old oak settles and 
cupboards stood upon the landings. On the walls hung pictures, 
one was of Lord Beaconsfield, one was a fine print of George IV, 
and others, again, of that denuded classic school of art which 
seems to have taken a last refuge in old English inns. There 
were Chippendale cabinets, old bits of china, and above all 
there were the beautiful oak banisters to admire. . . . Our kind 
Interpreter at Knutsford patiently led us from one place to 
another; sometimes we seemed to be in Cranford, greeting our 
visionary friends; sometimes we were back in Knutsford again, 
looking at the homes of the people we had known in the fact 
rather than in the fancy. . . . There are so many slanting 
gables left, and lattices and corners, that High Street has 
something the look of a mediseval street. The house where 
Mrs. Gaskell lived as a little girl with her aunt is on the Heath, 
a tall red house with a wide-spreading view, and with a 
pretty carved staircase and many light windows both back 
and front.” 

So Mrs. Ritchie saw Knutsford a few years ago; so I saw it a 
few months back. Its quaint old streets with their great limes 
and horse-chestnut trees, its old-fashioned walled gardens, its 
surrounding sweeps of grass reaching out past the tree-shaded 
lanes to the dark gloom of thickets beyond, all witnessed that 
here “ God keeps open house.” A few hours before, I had walked 
past the spot where the Gaskells made their home in Dover 
Street, Manchester. Knutsford and Manchester — what a con- 
trast! Small wonder is it that this story, with its Knutsford 
background, is a restful, idyllic bit of comedy, and that with 


XX 


CRANFORD 


a Manchester setting we should have a sombre grappling with 
life’s deep, dark problems, the type of which, in Mrs. Gas- 
kell’s stories, is “Mary Barton.” That famous novel pre- 
sents the strongest contrast to the delicate, playful, restful 
Cranford which found its germ and genesis in Knutsford. After 
giving battle to her own heart weariness and writing out the 
storm and stress period about her, what wonder that Mrs. 
Gaskell remembered Knutsford and pictures it to us from a 
singularly faithful and consistent point of view. Not for one 
moment does she see these elderly women as aught save lovable 
and tender. Miss Matty rolls a ball under the bed to see if 
there is a man hiding there; Miss Betty Barker dresses her cow 
in flannel ; the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson sleeps at Miss Barker’s 
party, while Mrs. Forrester must be made to hear. All these 
humorous incidents we laugh at, yet so kindly, considerately, 
and tenderly are they narrated that we feel a goodness in the 
people; we feel ourselves better for knowing the story of their 
simple lives. They are the author’s own familiar friends, known 
to her since the beginning. Her uncle, Peter Holland, was her 
type of the good country doctor; her only brother, John Steven- 
son, a lieutenant in the merchant navy, who disappeared on his 
third or fourth voyage, suggested the Aga or Peter Jenkyns of 
the book. Deborah and Matty Jenkyns were no doubt her own 
cousins, sisters of the eminent London physician, Sir Henry 
Holland. Mr. Holbrook was grandfather Holland, a yeoman 
who farmed his own land at Sandlebridge and saw only the 
bright side of things. Her household friends appear as char- 
acters not only in “Cranford,” for in “Cousin Phyllis,” Mr. 
Holman, the farmer minister, the strong-minded Puritan who 
craved all knowledge, is a fairly life-like picture of Mrs. Gaskell’s 
father; her uncle Joseph of the Royal Navy, who died in a 
French prison, suggests Holdsworth’s intimacy with the French 
Canadian Ventadour family in the same short story; and we do 
not forget the “babby” in “Mary Barton.” I might go on 
moving characters out of their literary settings into the child- 
hood environment of Mrs. Gaskell, but enough has been told 
to prove that the writer’s life is in her books. 

George Eliot, also, lets us into the lives of the people among 


INTRODUCTION 


xxi 


whom she grew up, but George Eliot uses a carefully wrought- 
out plot. Mrs. Gaskell rambles along with easy, natural prog- 
ress. Plot seems almost a lumbering word to introduce into a 
discussion of this prose idyll, for the early chapters seem no 
more bound together than those five Christmas essays wherein 
Irving shows us an old-fashioned English Yule-tide. The 
sketchy quality seems to deepen into a slight plot from the time 
“Poor Peter” is mentioned so pathetically in Chapter V. Miss 
Matty unconsciously confesses her love story: “I sent a mes- 
sage privately to that same Mr. Holbrook’s house — poor Mr. 
Holbrook!” Poor Miss Matty! Like Mary Smith, we, too, 
unconsciously build up her story. Back it writes itself between 
the lines, and chapters one to six are no longer mere sketches 
but a part of the unified story of Miss Matty. From this 
mention of “Poor Peter” the chapters grow more coherent, 
for the plot, which is strangely enough the work of the reader 
under the writer’s suggestion, is definitely unravelled. To Mary 
Smith occurs the thought that the Aga Jenkyns who so be- 
friended the Brunonis is none other than Peter Jenkyns. Miss 
Smith writes to Aga,* Peter returns; Miss Matty’s cup of joy 
overflows. The story grew under the author’s hands and the 
story grows still in the appreciative reader’s mind. True, there 
is little unity of structure. Mary Smith tells the whole story in 
the first person, as the characters and their lives appear to 
her in her various visits to the place of the story. The old 
Rector and his family are the central personages. Miss Matty 
and the characters closely associated with her appear and 
reappear, as Sir Roger and the various club members do in 
the “ De Coverley Papers.” 

The real unity of “Cranford” lies in the ideas, feelings, and 
customs of its characters. Every one in the book, save the 
semi-titled, selfish Honorable Mrs. Jamieson and the ill-natured 
pompous Mr. Mulliner, makes us feel that it is good to be alive. 
These two exceptions give the needed contrast. Mrs. Jamieson, 
lacking all graces save her aristocratic connections, ignores 
Mrs. Fitz Adam’s deep courtesies and queens it over the com- 
munity until the arrival of a real peeress and a true woman — 
Lady Glenmire — who soon wins the hearts of all. Dear, kindly, 


XXII 


CRANFORD 


self-denying Captain Brown shocks the even tenor of the 
Amazonian ways when he carries home an old woman’s dinner. 
Yet simple goodness, not aristocratic connections, is in reality 
the “open sesame” to the Cranford heart, for Deborah, the 
censor of the Jenkyns home, and of the village manners, is Miss 
Jessie Brown’s good angel in the “valley of the shadow.” Miss 
Pole is a gossip; she pries into other people’s affairs; she has a 
passion for being the first to impart news, yet it is she who leads 
in the movement for establishing an annuity in a “secret and 
concealed manner” for impoverished Miss Matty. Mr. Hol- 
brook eats his peas with his knife and is bluntly tactless, yet he 
still keeps his boyish enthusiasm for all that is beautiful — books, 
nature, Miss Matty. And dear, old, pathetic Miss Matty is 
beautiful in her unwearying respect for Deborah’s tastes and 
studies. Refined, gentle, and unselfish, Miss Matty shows her- 
self the true lady when the Town and County Bank fails. 
Among such people economy was elegant and extravagance 
vulgar. To admit poverty or mention trade was the height of 
vulgarity. Jessie Brown almost committed the unpardonable 
sin at Miss Jenkyns’s party when she offered to get the identical 
Shetland wool required “through my uncle, who has the best 
assortment of Shetland goods of any one in Edinbro.” Yet 
Jessie Brown’s face — “ It was true there was something childlike 
in her face; and there will be, I think, till she dies” — won the 
Cranfordians. These ladies were “always persuasive, never 
emphatic.” They were quaint and original and, however 
limited their resources, they preserved their self-respect amid 
all the difficulties of keeping up appearances. 

Mrs. Gaskell knew all classes. Her sympathy was broad 
and deep. She sees in the servant Martha a nature crude but 
pure gold. Jem Hearn, “a joiner making three and sixpence 
a day, and six foot one in his stocking feet, please ma’am,” 
may be blunt and awkward, yet his manliness and generosity 
are not found wanting when Martha calls him to the rescue 
of Miss Matty’s home. Martha and Jem are sane, sensible, 
and capable of fine feelings, and yet finer actions. Mrs. 
Gaskell loved these people high and low. We love them too. 
Professor Min to says: “We seem to know every turn of their 


INTRODUCTION 


xxiii 

thoughts and every trick of their gesture. . . . We are disposed 
to think more amiably of gossiping old women after reading 
‘Cranford.’” 

It is often said that genius, in its expression, is usually moulded 
and directed by preceding or accompanying influences which 
are traceable in the results. Critics have suggested that “Mary 
Barton” owes its conception to Disraeli’s “Sybil.” That book 
came out in 1845. It purposed to show how the gulf between 
the rich and poor might be bridged over. Mrs. Gaskell, as she 
went about her work, unconsciously learned more of the real 
state of affairs than Disraeli could ever hope to learn from 
books and experimental visits to factories. However, the book 
may have influenced Mrs. Gaskell to attack the problem. It 
has been suggested, too, that on the Cranford side, Jane Austen’s 
influence is perceptible. In the order of time Mrs. Gaskell is 
Jane Austen’s successor. Both women give us pure realism 
atld pure comedy. Both have an easy grace and delicacy. 
“Cranford” might be possible for Jane Austen, although her 
Lydia, Jane, and Elizabeth are much younger and much less 
tenderly handled than Mrs. Gaskell’s Amazons, but who ever 
thought of Miss Austen as a possible writer of “Mary Barton ” ? 
Trails of Goldsmith and Crabbe have been scented. In the 
case of the former, the suggestion of kinship is the idyllic spirit 
and charm of his presentation of rustic life in “The Vicar of 
Wakefield”; in that of the latter, it is Crabbe’s sympathy with 
the emotions, manners, and actions of the common people. 
Speculations of this nature seem of doubtful value. We are 
each and all of us a part of all that has gone before, so, beyond 
a doubt, Mrs. Gaskell owes something to all these predecessors, 
yet at no time do we read a Cranford sentence and unconsciously 
interrupt ourselves with — there! that is Crabbe or Jane Austen or 
Oliver Goldsmith or Disraeli. There is, however, close kinship 
between Charles Lamb’s “Dream Children” and the pathetic 
undertone of Miss Matty’s life. 

Why are we who read and love Cranford mellowed by it? 
Because of the woman that wrote it. The style is the woman. 
A sane, sympathetic, and charming mind created these char- 
acters. The book itself is sane and charming. The reader 


XXIV 


CRANFORD 


catches the writer’s sympathy. With so little plot interest, 
were it not for its sunny humor and true pathos, “Cranford” 
would be a dull book; while, as it is, it is live, cheery, healthy, 
and real — a book for any man, woman, or child. 

Recall the following laughable incidents: the guests rising 
from the sofa so that the maid may pull out the tea-tray; Miss 
Matty’s candle economy; Miss Deborah Jenkyns’s stately wish 
that Dickens might learn to model his “Pickwick Papers” on 
Dr. Johnson’s “Rasselas”; Miss Matty’s perplexity over the 
razors; Miss Betty Barker’s Alderney cow all dressed in a care- 
fully made suit of flannels; the many allusions to “followers” 
and to men in general; Miss Pole’s fit of coughing just at the 
moment she had worked up to her climax — Lady Glenmire’s 
engagement; Mr. Mulliner’s defying the burglars to come up to 
his attic room; and many more. Captain Brown lives again in 
the words: “Get her a flannel waistcoat and flannel drawers, 
ma’am, if you wish to keep her alive, but my advice is to kill 
the poor creature at once.” Or again, in answer to Deborah’s 
“I consider it vulgar, and below the dignity of literature to 
publish in numbers,” the Captain retorts, “How was the 
* Rambler’ published, ma’am?” Could anything be funnier 
than Miss Barker’s “Hush, ladies 1 if you please, hush. Mrs. 
Jamieson is asleep ! ” It was very difficult to steer clear between 
Mrs. Forrester’s deafness and Mrs. Jamieson’s sleepiness. But 
Miss Barker managed her arduous task well. She repeated the 
whisper to Mrs. Forrester, distorting her face considerably, in 
order to show, by the motions of her lips, what was said; and 
then she smiled kindly all around at the others, and murmured 
to herself, “Very gratifying indeed; I wish my poor sister had 
been alive to see this day.” One lingers over these touches of 
gentle humor. Is there in any one a suggestion of a sting? 
Lord Houghton comments wisely: “ ‘ Cranford’ is the purest bit 
of humoristic writing that has been added to British literature 
since Charles Lamb.” 

Close on the humor comes the pathos — the love story of Mr. 
Holbrook and Miss Matty — a life-long regret. Miss Jessie and 
Major Gordon, Lady Glenmire and Dr. Hoggins, Martha and 
Jem Hearn love, marry, and live happily. Holbrook and Miss 


INTRODUCTION 


XXV 


Matty remain lovers to the end. Their pathetic love affair 
touches a chord of tenderness that no happy ending ever could 
touch. Humor and pathos are intermingled in the placing of 
the sign of Miss Matty’s tea-store where people could not see it. 
True pathos is carried through the narration of Mrs. Samuel 
Brown’s long journey to Calcutta with her last remaining child. 
The tenderest bit of pathos in the whole book is the story of 
the boy Peter and the mother’s heart-broken letter to her 
runaway son. That letter goes deep into the reader’s feelings; 
it purifies him; it breathes unselfishness throughout. 

There is not a sarcasm in these pictures of village life. 
There is no snob among the Cranfordians. Mrs. Jamieson, 
for contrast sake, approaches snobbery, but a few treatments 
by the returned, practical joker, Peter Jenkyns, smooth her 
ruffled feelings and end her feud with the Hogginses. It is a 
grand good thing to have written a book that makes its readers 
live better and be gladder of life. Among novelists, Mrs. Gas- 
kell ranks, according to the critics, in the second class. William 
Min to says : “ No one would dream of ranking Mrs. Gaskell as a 
novelist beside Dickens or Thackeray, but she deserves a very 
high place among those who are comparatively unambitious in 
their efforts, and who, having a just measure of their own powers, 
succeed perfectly in what they undertake. She never attempted 
high flights, but pursued her way steadily and surely at a mod- 
erate elevation. Her style has not the magnificent reach of her 
friend, Charlotte Bronte; it is homely as suited her subjects. 
It was natural that art such as hers, working earnestly within a 
definite field, without straining to get beyond it, and never 
wasting its strength against the precipices, should become more 
perfect as she went on.” The great psychological novel of 
George Eliot and the easy story of Cranford life each have their 
place. The author of “Cranford” would do us good by teach- 
ing us to look with kindness on the peculiarities of our fellow 
beings. We may smile at their eccentricities but we must find 
their goodness. The message from the depths of Mrs. Gaskell’s 
heart to the heart of her reader is this: the ridiculous and the 
unselfish and lovable may walk hand in hand. What may be 
Mrs. Gaskell’s fate in the generations to come is a mere matter 


XXVI 


CRANFORD 


of speculation, yet the books which appeal to the universal 
human heart must be classics, the books of all time, and “ Cran- 
ford” is one of these. 


III.— CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF MRS. GASKELL’S 
WRITINGS 

1840. “ Clopton Hall ” in Howitt’s Visits to Remarkable Places . 

1848. Mary Barton. 

1850. The Moorland Cottage. 

1850. Lizzie Leigh. 

1853. Ruth. 

1853. Cranford. 

1855. North and South. 

1857. Life of Charlotte Bronte. 

1859. Round the Sofa. 

1859. My Lady Ludlow. 

1860. Right at Last. 

1861. Lois the Witch. 

1863. A Dark Night’s Work. 

1863. Sylvia’s Lovers. 

1865. The Grey Woman. 

1865. Hand and Heart. 


PUBLISHED AFTER DEATH: 
1866. Wives and Daughters. 


EDITED WORKS: 

1857. Mabel Vaughan. 

1862. C. A. Vecchi's Garibaldi at Caprera. 


CRANFORD 



CRANFORD 

CHAPTER I 

OUR SOCIETY 

¥ N the first place, Cranford is in possession of the Amazons; all 
the holders of houses, above a certain rent, are women. If 
a married couple come to settle in the town, somehow the gentle- 
man disappears; he is either fairly frightened to death by being 
the only man in the Cranford evening parties, or he is accounted 
for by being with his regiment, his ship, or closely engaged in 
business all the week in the great neighboring commercial town 
of Drumble, distant only twenty miles on a railroad. In short, 
whatever does become of the gentlemen, they are not at Cran- 
ford. What could they do if they were there? The surgeon 
has his round of thirty miles, and sleeps at Cranford; but every 
man cannot be a surgeon. For keeping the trim gardens full 
of choice flowers without a weed to speck them; for frightening 
away little boys who look wistfully at the said flowers through 
the railings; for rushing out at the geese that occasionally ven- 
ture into the gardens if the gates are left open; for deciding all 
questions of literature and politics without troubling themselves 
with unnecessary reasons or arguments; for obtaining clear and 
correct knowledge of everybody’s affairs in the parish; for keep- 
ing their neat maid-servants in admirable order; for kindness 
(somewhat dictatorial) to the poor, and real tender good offices 
to each other whenever they are in distress, the ladies of Cranford 
are quite sufficient. “A man,” as one of them observed to me 
once, “is so in the way in the house!” Although the ladies of 
Cranford know all each other’s proceedings, they are exceedingly 
indifferent to each other’s opinions. Indeed, as each has her 
own individuality, not to say eccentricity, pretty strongly de- 
veloped, nothing is so easy as verbal retaliation; but, somehow, 
good-will reigns among them to a considerable degree. 

3 


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CRANFORD 


The Cranford ladies have only an occasional little quarrel, 
spirited out in a few peppery words and angry jerks of the head; 
just enough to prevent the even tenor of their lives from becom- 
ing too flat. Their dress is very independent of fashion; as 
5 they observe, “ What does it signify how we dress here at Cran- 
ford, where everybody knows us?” And if they go from home, 
their reason is equally cogent, “What does it signify how we 
dress here, where nobody knows us?” The materials of their 
clothes are, in general, good and plain, and most of them are 
10 nearly as scrupulous as Miss Tyler, of cleanly memory; but I 
will answer for it, the last gigot, the last tight and scanty petticoat 
in wear in England, was seen in Cranford — and seen without a 
smile. 

I can testify to a magnificent family red silk umbrella, under 
15 which a gentle little spinster, left alone of many brothers and 
sisters, used to patter to church on rainy days. Have you any 
red silk umbrellas in London ? We had a tradition of the first 
that had ever been seen in Cranford ; and the little boys mobbed 
it, and called it “a stick in petticoats.” It might have been 
20 the very red silk one I have described, held by a strong father 
over a troop of little ones; the poor little lady — the survivor 
of all — could scarcely carry it. 

Then there were rules and regulations for visiting and calls; 
and they were announced to any .young people, who might be 
25 staying in the town, with all the solemnity with which the old 
Manx laws were read once a year on the Tinwald Mount. 

“Our friends have sent to inquire how you are after your 
journey to-night, my dear” (fifteen miles, in a gentlemen’s 
carriage) ; “ they will give you some rest to-morrow, but the next 
30 day, I have no doubt, they will call; so be at liberty after twelve 
— from twelve to three are our calling-hours.” 

Then, after they had called: — 

“It is the third day; I dare say your mamma has told you, 
my dear, never to let more than three days elapse between re- 
35 ceiving a call and returning it; and also, that you are never to 
stay longer than a quarter of an hour.” 

“ But am I to look at my watch ? How am I to find out when 
a quarter of an hour has passed?” 


OUR SOCIETY 


5 


“You must keep thinking about the time, my dear, and not 
allow yourself to forget it in conversation.” 

As everybody had this rule in their minds, whether they re- 
ceived or paid a call, of course no absorbing subject was ever 
spoken about. We kept ourselves to short sentences of small 
talk, and were punctual to our time. 

I imagine that a few of the gentle-folks of Cranford were poor, 
and had some difficulty in making both ends meet; but they 
were like the Spartans, and concealed their smart under a 
smiling face. We none of us spoke of money, because that 
subject savored of commerce and trade, and, though some might 
be poor, we were all aristocratic. The Cranfordians had that 
kindly esprit de corps which made them overlook all deficiencies 
in success when some among them tried to conceal their poverty. 
When Mrs. Forrester, for instance, gave a party in her baby- 
house of a dwelling, and the little maiden disturbed the ladies 
on the sofa by a request that she might get the tea-tray out from 
underneath, every one took this novel proceeding as the most 
natural thing in the world, and talked on about household forms 
and ceremonies as if we all believed that our hostess had a 
regular servants’ hall, second table, with housekeeper and 
steward, instead of the one little charity-school maiden, whose 
short ruddy arms could never have been strong enough to carry 
the tray up-stairs, if she had not been assisted in private by her 
mistress, who now sat in state, pretending not to know what 
cakes were sent up, though she knew, and we knew, and she 
knew that we knew, and we knew that she knew that we knew, 
she had been busy all the morning making tea-bread and sponge 
cakes. 

There were one or two consequences arising from this general 
but unacknowledged poverty, and this very much acknowledged 
gentility, which were not amiss, and which might be introduced 
into many circles of society to their great improvement. For in- 
stance, the inhabitants of Cranford kept early hours, and clat- 
tered home in their pattens, under the guidance of a lantern- 
bearer, about nine o’clock at night; and the whole town was 
abed and asleep by half-past ten. Moreover, it was considered 
“vulgar” (a tremendous word in Cranford) to give anything 


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CRANFORD 


expensive, in the way of eatable or drinkable, at the evening 
entertainments. Wafer bread-and-butter and sponge-biscuits 
were all that the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson gave; and she was 
sister-in-law to the late Earl of Glenmire, although she did 
practise such “ elegant economy.” 

“Elegant economy!” How naturally one falls back into the 
phraseology of Cranford ! There, economy was always “elegant,” 
and money-spending always “vulgar and ostentatious”; a sort of 
sour grapeism which made us very peaceful and satisfied. I 
never shall forget the dismay felt when a certain Captain Brown 
came to live at Cranford, and openly spoke about his being poor 
— not in a whisper to an intimate friend, the doors and windows 
being previously closed, but in the public street! in a loud 
military voice! alleging his poverty as a reason for not taking 
a particular house. The ladies of Cranford were already rather 
moaning over the invasion of their territories by a man and a 
gentleman. He was a half-pay captain, and had obtained some 
situation on a neighboring railroad, which had been vehemently 
petitioned against by the little town; and if, in addition to his 
masculine gender, and his connection with the obnoxious rail- 
road, he was so brazen as to talk of being poor — why, then, 
indeed, he must be sent to Coventry. Death was as true and as 
common as poverty; yet people never spoke about that, loud 
out in the streets. It was a word not to be mentioned to ears 
polite. We had tacitly agreed to ignore that any with whom we 
associated on terms of visiting equality could ever be prevented 
by poverty from doing anything that they wished. If we walked 
to or from a party, it was because the night was so fine, or the air 
so refreshing, not because sedan-chairs were expensive. If we 
wore prints, instead of summer silks, it was because we preferred 
a washing material; and so on, till we blinded ourselves to the 
vulgar fact that we were, all of us, people of very moderate 
means. Of course, then, we did not know what to make of a 
man who could speak of poverty as if it was not a disgrace. 
Yet, somehow, Captain Brown made himself respected in Cran- 
ford, and was called upon, in spite of all resolutions to the 
contrary. I was surprised to hear his opinions quoted as au- 
thority at a visit which I paid to Cranford about a year after he 


OUR SOCIETY 


7 


had settled in the town. My own friends had been among the 
bitterest opponents of any proposal to visit the captain and his 
daughters, only twelve months before; and now he was even 
admitted in the tabooed hours before twelve. True, it was to 
discover the cause of a smoking chimney, before the fire was 
lighted; but still Captain Brown walked up-stairs, nothing 
daunted, spoke in a voice too large for the room, and joked quite 
in the way of a tame man about the house. He had been blind 
to all the small slights, and omissions of trivial ceremonies, with 
which he had been received. He had been friendly, though the 
Cranford ladies had been cool ; he had answered small sarcastic 
compliments in good faith; and with his manly frankness had 
overpowered all the shrinking which met him as a man who 
was not ashamed to be poor. And, at last, his excellent mascu- 
line common sense, and his facility in devising expedients to 
overcome domestic dilemmas, had gained him an extraordinary 
place as authority among the Cranford ladies. He himself went 
on in his course, as unaware of his popularity as he had been 
of the reverse; and I am sure he was startled one day when he 
found his advice so highly esteemed as to make some counsel 
which he had given in jest to be taken in sober, serious earnest. 

It was on this subject: An old lady had an Alderney cow, 
which she looked upon as a daughter. You could not pay the 
short quarter of an hour call without being told of the wonderful 
milk or wonderful intelligence of this animal. The whole town 
knew and kindly regarded Miss Betsy Barker’s Alderney; there- 
fore great was the sympathy and regret when, in an unguarded 
moment, the poor cow tumbled into a lime-pit. She moaned so 
loudly that she was soon heard and rescued; but meanwhile the 
poor beast had lost most of her hair, and came out looking naked, 
cold, and miserable, in a bare skin. Everybody pitied the ani- 
mal, though a few could not restrain their smiles at her droll 
appearance. Miss Betsy Barker absolutely cried with sorrow 
and dismay; and it was said she thought of trying a bath of oil. 
This remedy, perhaps, was recommended by some one of the 
number whose advice she asked; but the proposal, if ever it was 
made, was knocked on the head by Captain Brown’s decided 
“ Get her a flannel waistcoat and flannel drawers, ma’am, if you 


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8 CRANFORD 

wish to keep her alive. But my advice is, kill the poor creature 
at once.” 

Miss Betsy Barker dried her eyes, and thanked the Captain 
heartily; she set to work, and by and by all the town turned out 
5 to see the Alderney meekly going to her pasture, clad in dark 
gray flannel. I have watched her myself many a time. Do you 
ever see cows dressed in gray flannel in London ? 

Captain Brown had taken a small house on the outskirts of 
the town, where he lived with his two daughters. He must have 
10 been upwards of sixty at the time of the first visit I paid to 
Cranford after I had left it as a residence. But he had a wiry, 
well-trained, elastic figure, a stiff military throw-back of his 
head, and a springing step, which made him appear much 
younger than he was. His eldest daughter looked almost as 
15 old as himself, and betrayed the fact that his real was more than 
his apparent age. Miss Brown must have been forty; she had 
a sickly, pained, careworn expression on her face, and looked as 
if the gayety of youth had long faded out of sight. Even when 
young she must have been plain and hard-featured. Miss 
20 Jessie Brown was ten years younger than her sister, and twenty 
shades prettier. Her face was round and dimpled. Miss 
Jenkyns once said, in a passion against Captain Brown (the 
cause of which I will tell you presently), “that she thought it 
was time for Miss Jessie to leave off her dimples, and not always 
25 to be trying to look like a child.” It was true there was some- 
thing child-like in her face; and there will be, I think, till she 
dies, though she should live to a hundred. Her eyes were large 
blue wondering eyes, looking straight at you; her nose was 
unformed and snub, and her lips were red and dewy; she wore 
30 her hair, too, in little rows of curls, which heightened this ap- 
pearance. I do not know whether she was pretty or not; but 
I liked her face, and so did everybody, and I do not think she 
could help her dimples. She had something of her father’s 
jauntiness of gait and manner; and any female observer might 
35 detect a slight difference in the attire of the two sisters — that of 
Miss Jessie being about two pounds per annum more expensive 
than Miss Brown’s. Two pounds was a large sum in Captain 
Brown’s annual disbursements. 


OUR SOCIETY 


9 


Such was the impression made upon me by the Brown family 
when I first saw them all together in Cranford church. The 
captain I had met before- — on the occasion of the smoky chim- 
ney, which he had cured by some simple alteration in the flue. 
In church, he held his double eye-glass to his eyes during the 
Morning Hymn, and then lifted up his head erect and sang out 
loud and joyfully. He made the responses louder than the 
clerk — an old man with a piping feeble voice, who, I think, felt 
aggrieved at the captain’s sonorous bass, and quavered higher 
and higher in consequence. 

On coming out of church, the brisk captain paid the most 
gallant attention to his two daughters. He nodded and smiled 
to his acquaintances; but he shook hands with none until he 
had helped Miss Brown to unfurl her umbrella, had relieved her 
of her prayer-book, and had waited patiently till she, with trem- 
bling nervous hands, had taken up her gown to walk through the 
wet roads. 

I wondered what the Cranford ladies did with Captain Brown 
at their parties. We had often rejoiced, in former days, that 
there was no gentleman to be attended to, and to find conversa- 
tion for, at the card-parties. We had congratulated ourselves 
upon the snugness of the evenings; and, in our love for gentility, 
and distaste of mankind, we had almost persuaded ourselves 
that to be a man was to be “vulgar”; so that when I found my 
friend and hostess, Miss Jenkyns, was going to have a party in 
my honor, and that Captain and the Miss Browns were invited, I 
wondered much what would be the course of the evening. Card- 
tables, with green-baize tops, were set out by daylight, just as 
usual; it was the third week in November, so the evenings 
closed in about four. Candles and clean packs of cards were 
arranged on each table. The fire was made up; the neat maid- 
servant had received her last directions; and there we stood, 
dressed in our best, each with a candle-lighter in our hands, 
ready to dart at the candles as soon as the first knock came. 
Parties in Cranford were solemn festivities, making the ladies 
feel gravely elated as they sat together in their best dresses. 
As soon as three had arrived, we sat down to “Preference,” I 
being the unlucky fourth. The next four comers were put down 


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immediately to another table; and presently the tea-trays, 
which I had seen set out in the store-room as' I passed in the 
morning, were placed each on the middle of a card-table. The 
china was delicate egg-shell; the old-fashioned silver glittered 
with polishing; but the eatables were of the slightest description. 
While the trays were yet on the tables, Captain and the. Miss 
Browns came in; and I could see that, somehow or other, the 
captain was a favorite with all the ladies present. Ruffled 
brows were smoothed, sharp voices lowered at his approach. 
Miss Brown looked ill, and depressed almost to gloom. Miss 
Jessie smiled as usual, and seemed nearly as popular as her 
father. He immediately and quietly assumed the man’s place 
in the room; attended to every one’s wants, lessened the pretty 
maid-servant’s labor by waiting on empty cups and bread-and- 
butterless ladies; and yet did it all in so easy and dignified a 
manner, and so much as if it were a matter of course for the 
strong to attend to the weak, that he was a true man throughout. 
He played for three-penny points with as grave an interest as 
if they had been pounds; and yet, in all his attention to strangers, 
he had an eye on his suffering daughter — for suffering I was sure 
she was, though to many eyes she might only appear to be irri- 
table. Miss Jessie could not play cards: but she talked to the 
sitters-out, who, before her coming, had been rather inclined to 
be cross. She sang, too, to ah old cracked piano, which I think 
had been a spinnet in its youth. Miss Jessie sang “Jock of 
Hazeldean” a little out of tune; but we were none of us musical, 
though Miss Jenkyns beat time, out of time, by way of appearing 
to be so. 

It was very good of Miss Jenkyns to do this; for I had seen 
that, a little before, she had been a good deal annoyed by Miss 
Jessie Brown’s unguarded admission (apropos of Shetland wool) 
that she had an uncle, her mother’s brother, who was a shop- 
keeper in Edinburgh. Miss Jenkyns tried to drown this con- 
fession by a terrible cough — for the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson 
was sitting at the card-table nearest Miss Jessie, and what would 
she say or think if she found out she was in the same room with 
a shopkeeper’s niece! But Miss Jessie Brown (who had no tact, 
as we all agreed the next morning) would repeat the information, 


OUR SOCIETY 


11 


and assure Miss Pole she could easily get her the identical 
Shetland wool required, “through my uncle, who has the best 
assortment of Shetland goods of any one in Edinbro’.” It was 
to take the taste of this out of our mouths, and the sound of this 
out of our ears, that Miss Jenkyns proposed music; so I say 
again, it was very good of her to beat time to the song. 

When the trays reappeared with biscuits and wine, punctu- 
ally at a quarter to nine, there was conversation, comparing of 
cards, and talking over tricks; but by and by Captain Brown 
sported a bit of literature. 

“Have you seen any numbers of ‘The Pickwick Papers’ ?” 
said he. (They were then publishing in parts.) “ Capital thing! ” 

Now, Miss Jenkyns was daughter of a deceased rector of 
Cranford; and, on the strength of a number of manuscript 
sermons, and a pretty good library of divinity, considered herself 
literary, and looked upon any conversation about books as a 
challenge to her. So she answered and said, “ Yes, she had seen 
them; indeed, she might say she had read them.” 

“ And what do you think of them ? ” exclaimed Captain Brown. 
“Aren’t they famously good?” 

So urged, Miss Jenkyns could not but speak. 

“ I must say, I don’t think they are by any means equal to Dr. 
Johnson. Still, perhaps, the author is young. Let him per- 
severe, and who knows what he may become if he will take the 
great Doctor for his model.” This was evidently too much for 
Captain Brown to take placidly; and I saw the words on the tip 
of his tongue before Miss Jenkyns had finished her sentence. 

“It is quite a different sort of thing, my dear madam,” he 
began. 

“I am quite aware of that,” returned she. “And I make 
allowances, Captain Brown.” 

“Just allow me to read you a scene out of this month’s num- 
ber,” pleaded he. “ I had it only this morning, and I don’t think 
the company can have read it yet.” 

“As you please,” said she, settling herself with an air of resig- 
nation. He read the account of the “swarry” which Sam 
Weller gave at Bath. Some of us laughed heartily. I did tiot 
dare, because I was staying in the house. Miss Jenkyns sat in 


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patient gravity. When it was ended, she turned to me, and said, 
with mild dignity, 

“Fetch me ‘Rasselas,’ my dear, out of the book-room.” 

When I brought it to her, she turned to Captain Brown : 

“ Now allow me to read you a scene, and then the present com- 
pany can judge between your favorite, Mr. Boz, and Dr. Johnson.” 

She read one of the conversations between Rasselas and Imlac, 
in a high-pitched majestic voice; and when she had ended, she 
said, “ I imagine I am now justified in my preference of Dr. John- 
son as a writer of fiction.” The captain screwed his lips up, and 
drummed on the table, but he did not speak. She thought she 
would give a finishing blow or two. 

“I consider it vulgar, and below the dignity of literature, to 
publish in numbers.” 

“ How was the ‘ Rambler’ published, ma’am ? ” asked Captain 
Brown, in a low voice, which I think Miss Jenkyns could not 
have heard. 

“ Dr. Johnson’s style is a model for young beginners. My fa- 
ther recommended it to me when I began to write letters — I have 
formed my own style upon it; I recommend it to your favorite.” 

“ I should be very sorry for him to exchange his style for any 
such pompous writing,” said Captain Brown. 

Miss Jenkyns felt this as a personal affront, in a way of which 
the captain had not dreamed. Epistolary writing she and her 
friends considered as her forte. Many a copy of many a letter 
have I seen written and corrected on the slate, before she “ seized 
the half-hour just previous to post-time to assure” her friends of 
this or of that; and Dr. Johnson was, as she said, her model, in 
these compositions. She drew herself up with dignity, and only 
replied to Captain Brown’s last remark by saying, with marked 
emphasis on every syllable, “ I prefer Dr. Johnson to Mr. Boz.” 

It is said — I won’t vouch for the fact — that Captain Brown 
was heard to say, sotto voce, “D — n Dr. Johnson!” If he did, 
he was penitent afterward, as he showed by going to stand near 
Miss Jenkyns’s arm-chair, and endeavoring to beguile her into 
conversation on some more pleasing subject. But she was inex- 
orable. The next day she made the remark I have mentioned 
about Miss Jessie’s dimples. 


THE CAPTAIN 


13 


CHAPTER II 

THE CAPTAIN 

It was impossible to live a month at Cranford and not know the 
daily habits of each resident; and long before my visit was ended 
I knew much concerning the whole Brown trio. There was 
nothing new to be discovered respecting their poverty; for they 
had spoken simply and openly about that from the very first. 
They made no mystery of the necessity for their being economical. 
All that remained to be discovered was the captain’s infinite 
kindness of heart, and the various modes in which, unconsciously 
to himself, he manifested it. Some little anecdotes were talked 
about for some time after they occurred. As we did not read 
much, and as all the ladies were pretty well suited with servants, 
there was a dearth of subjects for conversation. We therefore 
discussed the circumstance of the captain taking a poor old 
woman’s dinner out of her hands one very slippery Sunday. 
He had met her returning from the bakehouse as he came from 
church, and noticed her precarious footing; and, with the grave 
dignity with which he did everything, he relieved her of her 
burden, and steered along the street by her side, carrying her 
baked mutton and potatoes safely home. This was thought 
very eccentric; and it was rather expected that he would pay a 
round of calls, on the Monday morning, to explain and apologize 
to the Cranford sense of propriety: but he did no such thing; 
and then it was decided that he was ashamed, and was keeping 
out of sight. In a kindly pity for him, we began to say, “After 
all, the Sunday morning’s occurrence showed great goodness of 
heart,” and it was resolved that he should be comforted on his 
next appearance amongst us; but, lo! he came down upon us, un- 
touched by any sense of shame, speaking loud and bass as ever, 
his head thrown back, his wig as jaunty and well-curled as usual, 
and we were obliged to conclude he had forgotten all about 
Sunday. 

Miss Pole and Miss Jessie Brown had set up a kind of intimacy 
on the strength of the Shetland wool and the new knitting stitches; 


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so it happened that when I went to visit Miss Pole I saw more of 
the Browns than I had done while staying with Miss Jenkyns, 
who had never got over what she called Captain Brown’s dis- 
paraging remarks upon Dr. Johnson as a writer of light and 
5 agreeable fiction. I found that Miss Brown was seriously ill of 
some lingering, incurable complaint, the pain occasioned by 
which gave the uneasy expression to her face that I had taken 
for unmitigated crossness. Cross, too, she was at times, when 
the nervous irritability occasioned by her disease became past 
10 endurance. Miss Jessie bore with her at these times, even more 
patiently than she did with the bitter self-upbraidings by which 
they were invariably succeeded. Miss Brown used to accuse 
herself, not merely of hasty and irritable temper, but also of being 
the cause why her father and sister were obliged to pinch, in 
15 order to allow her the small luxuries which were necessaries in 
her condition. She would so fain have made sacrifices for them, 
and have lightened their cares, that the original generosity of her 
disposition added acerbity to her temper. All this was borne by 
Miss Jessie and her father with more than placidity — with abso- 
20 lute tenderness. I forgave Miss Jessie her singing out of tune, 
and her juvenility of dress, when I saw her at home. I came to 
perceive that Captain Brown’s dark Brutus wig and padded coat 
(alas! too often threadbare) were remnants of the military 
smartness of his youth, which he now wore unconsciously. He 
25 was a man of infinite resources, gained in his barrack experience. 
As he confessed, no one could black his boots to please him, 
except himself: but, indeed, he was not above saving the little 
maid-servant’s labors in every way — knowing, most likely, that 
his daughter’s illness made the place a hard one. 

30 He endeavored to make peace with Miss Jenkyns, soon after 
the memorable dispute I have named, by a present of a wooden 
fire-shovel (his own making), having heard her say how much 
the grating of an iron one annoyed her. She received the 
present with cool gratitude, and thanked him formally. When 
35 he was gone, she bade me put it away in the lumber-room; feel- 
ing, probably, that no present from a man who preferred Mr. 
Boz to Dr. Johnson could be less jarring than an iron fire- 
shovel. 


THE CAPTAIN 


15 


Such was the state of things when I left Cranford and went to 
Drumble. I had, however, several correspondents who kept me 
au fait as to the proceedings of the* dear little town. There was 
Miss Pole, who was becoming as much absorbed in crochet as 
she had been once in knitting, and the burden of whose letters 
was something like, “ But don’t you forget the white worsted at 
Flint’s” of the old song; for at the end of every sentence of 
news came a fresh direction as to some crochet commission which 
I was to execute for her. Miss Matilda Jenkyns (who did not 
mind being called Miss Matty when Miss Jenkyns was not by) 
wrote nice, kind, rambling letters, now and then venturing into 
an opinion of her own; but suddenly pulling herself up, and 
either begging me not to name what she had said, as Deborah 
thought differently, and she knew, or else putting in a postscript 
to the effect that, since writing the above, she had been talking 
over the subject with Deborah, and was quite convinced that, 
&c. — (here probably followed a recantation of every opinion 
she had given in the letter). Then came Miss Jenkyns — 
DebSrah, as she liked Miss Matty to call her, her father having 
once said that the Hebrew name ought to be so pronounced. 
I secretly think she took the Hebrew prophetess for a model in 
character; and, indeed, she was not unlike the stern prophetess 
in some ways, making allowance, of course, for modern customs 
and difference in dress. Miss Jenkyns wore a cravat, and a 
little bonnet like a jockey-cap, and altogether had the appearance 
of a strong-minded woman; although she would have despised 
the modern idea of women being equal to men. Equal, indeed! 
she knew they were superior. But to return to her letters. 
Everything in them was stately and grand, like herself. I have 
been looking them over (dear Miss Jenkyns, how I honored 
her!), and I will give an extract, more especially because it 
relates to our friend Captain Brown: 

“The Honorable Mrs. Jamieson has only just quitted me; and, 
in the course of conversation, she communicated to me the in- 
telligence that she had yesterday received a call from her 
revered husband’s quondam friend, Lord Mauleverer. You 
will not easily conjecture what brought his lordship within the 
precincts of our little town. It was to see Captain Brown, with 


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whom, it appears, his lordship was acquainted in the ‘plumed 
wars/ and who had the privilege of averting destruction from 
his lordship’s head, when some great peril was impending over 
it, off the misnomered Cape of Good Hope. You know our 
friend the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson’s deficiency in the spirit 
of innocent curiosity; and you will therefore not be so much 
surprised when I tell you she was quite unable to disclose to me 
the exact nature of the peril in question. I was anxious, I 
confess, to ascertain in what manner Captain Brown, with his 
limited establishment, could receive so distinguished a guest; 
and I discovered that his lordship retired to rest, and, let us hope, 
to refreshing slumbers, at the Angel Hotel; but shared the 
Brunonian meals during the two days that he honored Cranford 
with his august presence. Mrs. Johnson, our civil butcher’s 
wife, informs me that Miss Jessie purchased a leg of lamb; but, 
besides this, I can hear of no preparation whatever to give a 
suitable reception to so distinguished a visitor. Perhaps they 
entertained him with ‘the feast of reason and the flow of soul;’ 
and to us, who are acquainted with Captain Brown’s sad want 
of relish for ‘the pure wells of English undefiled,’ it may be 
matter for congratulation that he has had the opportunity of im- 
proving his taste by holding converse with an elegant and refined 
member of the British aristocracy. But from some mundane 
failings who. is altogether free?” 

Miss Pole and Miss Matty wrote to me by the same post. 
Such a piece of news as Lord Mauleverer’s visit was not to be 
lost on the Cranford letter- writers: they made the most of it. 
Miss Matty humbly apologized for writing at the same time as 
her sister, who was so much more capable than she to describe 
the honor done to Cranford; but, in spite of a little bad spelling, 
Miss Matty’s account gave me the best idea of the commotion 
occasioned by his lordship’s visit, after it had occurred; for, 
except the people at the Angel, the Browns, Mrs. Jamieson, and 
a little lad his lordship had sworn at for driving a dirty hoop 
against the aristocratic legs, I could not hear of any one with 
whom his lordship had held conversation. 

My next visit to Cranford was in the summer. There had 
been neither births, deaths, nor marriages since I was there last. 


THE CAPTAIN 


17 


Everybody lived in the same house, and wore pretty nearly the 
same well-preserved, old-fashioned clothes. The greatest event 
was, that the Miss Jenkynses had purchased a new carpet for the 
drawing-room. Oh the busy work Miss Matty and I had in 
chasing the sunbeams, as they fell in an afternoon right down on 5 
this carpet through the blindless window! We spread news- 
papers over the places, and sat down to our book or our work; 
and, lo! in a quarter of an hour the sun had moved, and was 
blazing away on a fresh spot; and down again we went on our 
knees to alter the position of the newspapers. We were very 10 
busy, too, one whole morning, before Miss Jenkyns gave her 
party, in following her directions, and in cutting out and stitching 
together pieces of newspaper so as to form little paths to every 
chair set for the expected visitors, lest their shoes might dirty or 
defile the purity of the carpet. Do you make paper paths for 15 
every guest to walk upon in London ? 

Captain Brown and Miss Jenkyns were not very cordial to 
each other. The literary dispute, .of which I had seen the be- 
ginning, was a “raw,” the slightest touch on which made them 
wince. It was the only difference of opinion they had ever had ; 20 
but that difference was enough. Miss Jenkyns could not refrain 
from talking at Captain Brown; and, though he did not reply, 
he drummed with his fingers, which action she felt and resented 
as very disparaging to Dr. Johnson. He was rather ostentatious 
in his preference of the writings of Mr. Boz; would walk through 25 
the streets so absorbed in them that he all but ran against Miss 
Jenkyns; and though his apologies were earnest and sincere, and 
though he did not, in fact, do more than startle her and himself, 
she owned to me she had rather he had knocked her down, if he 
had only been reading a higher style of literature. The poor, 30 
brave captain ! he looked older, and more worn, and his clothes 
were very threadbare. But he seemed as bright and cheerful as 
ever, unless he was asked about his daughter’s health. 

“She suffers a great deal, and she must suffer more; we do 
what we can to alleviate her pain; — God’s will be done!” He 35 
took off his hat at these last words. I found, from Miss Matty, 
that everything had been done, in fact. A medical man, of high 
repute in that country neighborhood, had been sent for, and 


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every injunction he had given was attended to, regardless of 
expense. Miss Matty was sure they denied themselves many 
things in order to make the invalid comfortable ; but they never 
spoke about it; and as for Miss Jessie! — “ I really think she’s an 
angel,” said poor Miss Matty, quite overcome. “To see her 
way of bearing with Miss Brown’s crossness, and the bright face 
she puts on after she’s been sitting up a whole night and scolded 
above half of it, is quite beautiful. Yet she looks as neat and as 
ready to welcome the captain at breakfast-time as if she had been 
asleep in the Queen’s bed all night. My dear! you could never 
laugh at her prim little curls or her pink bows again if you saw 
her as I have done.” I could only feel very penitent, and greet 
Miss Jessie with double respect when I met her next. She 
looked faded and pinched; and her lips began to quiver, as if 
she was very weak, when she spoke of her sister. But she 
brightened, and sent back the tears that were glittering in her 
pretty eyes, as she said : 

“But, to be sure, what a. town Cranford is for kindness! I 
don’t suppose any one has a better dinner than usual cooked, but 
the best part of all comes in a little covered basin for my sister. 
The poor people will leave their earliest vegetables at our door 
for her. They speak short and gruff, as if they were ashamed 
of it; but I am sure it often goes to my heart to see their thought- 
fulness.” The tears now came back and overflowed; but after 
a minute or two she began to scold herself, and ended by going 
away the same cheerful Miss Jessie as ever. 

“ But why does not this Lord Mauleverer do something for the 
man who saved his life?” said I. 

“Why, you see, unless Captain Brown has some reason for it, 
he never speaks about being poor; and he walked along by his 
lordship looking as happy and cheerful as a prince; and as they 
never called attention to their dinner by apologies, and as Miss 
Brown was better that day, and all seemed bright, I dare say his 
lordship never knew how much care there was in the background. 
He did send game in the winter pretty often, but now he is gone 
abroad.” 

I had often occasion to notice the use that was made of frag- 
ments and small opportunities in Cranford; the rose-leaves that 


THE CAPTAIN 


19 


were gathered ere they fell to make into a pot-pourri for some one 
who had no garden; the little bundles of lavender-flowers sent to 
strew the drawers of some town-dweller, or to burn in the 
chamber of some invalid. Things that many would despise, and 
actions which it seemed scarcely worth while to perform, were 
all attended to in Cranford. Miss Jenkyns stuck an apple full 
of cloves, to be heated and smell pleasantly in Miss Brown’s 
room; and as she put in each clove she uttered a Johnsonian 
sentence. Indeed, she never could think of the Browns without 
talking Johnson; and, as they were seldom absent from her 
thoughts just then, I heard many a rolling, three-piled sentence. 

Captain Brown called one day to thank Miss Jenkyns for 
many little kindnesses, which I did not know until then that she 
had rendered. He had suddenly become like an old man; his 
deep bass voice had a quivering in it, his eyes looked dim, and the 
lines on his face were deep. He did not — could not — speak 
cheerfully of his daughter’s state, but he talked with manly, pious 
resignation, and not much. Twice over he said, “What Jessie 
has been to us, God only knows!” and after the second time, he 
got up hastily, shook hands all round without speaking, and left 
the room. 

That afternoon we perceived little groups in the street, all 
listening with faces aghast to some tale or other. Miss Jenkyns 
wondered what could be the matter for some time before she 
took the undignified step of sending Jenny out to inquire. 

Jenny came back with a white face of terror. “Oh, ma’am! 
oh, Miss Jenkyns, ma’am! Captain Brown is killed by them 
nasty cruel railroads!” and she burst into tears. She, along 
with many others, had experienced the poor captain’s kindness. 

“How? — where — where? Good God! Jenny, don’t waste 
time in crying, but tell us something.” Miss Matty rushed out 
into the street at once, and collared the man who was telling the 
tale. 

“Come in — come to my sister at once, — Miss Jenkyns, the 
rector’s daughter. Oh, man, man! — say it is not true,” she 
cried, as she brought the affrighted carter, sleeking down his hair, 
into the drawing-room, where he stood with his wet boots on the 
new carpet, and no one regarded it. 


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“ Please, mum, it is true. I seed it myself,” and he shuddered 
at the recollection. “The captain was a-reading some new 
book as he was deep in, a-waiting for the down train; and there 
was a little lass as wanted to come to its mammy, and gave its 
5 sister the slip, and came toddling across the line. And he looked 
up sudden, at the sound of the train coming, and seed the child, 
and he darted on the line and cotched it up, and his foot slipped, 
and the train came over him in no time. Oh Lord, Lord! 
Mum, it’s quite true — and they’ve come over to tell his daugh- 
10 ters. The child’s safe, though, with only a bang on its shoulder, 
as he threw it to its mammy. Poor captain would be glad of 
that, mum, wouldn’t he ? God bless him!” The great rough 
carter puckered up his manly face, and turned away to hide 
his tears. I turned to Miss Jenkyns. She looked very ill, 
15 as if she were going to faint, and signed to me to open the 
window. 

“Matilda, bring me my bonnet. I must go to those girls. 
God pardon me, if ever I have spoken contemptuously to the 
captain ! ” 

20 Miss Jenkyns arrayed herself to go out, telling Miss Matilda 
to give the man a glass of wine. While she was away, Miss 
Matty and I huddled over the fire, talking in a low and awestruck 
voice. I know we cried quietly all the time. 

Miss Jenkyns came home in a silent mood, and we durst not 
25 ask her many questions. She told us that Miss Jessie had 
fainted, and that she and Miss Pole had had some difficulty in 
bringing her round; but that, as soon as she recovered, she 
begged one of them to go and sit with her sister. 

“ Mr. Hoggins says she cannot live many days, and she shall 
30 be spared this shock,” said Miss Jessie, shivering with feelings to 
which she dared not give way. 

“But how can you manage, my dear?” asked Miss Jenkyns; 
“you cannot bear up, she must see your tears.” 

“ God will help me — I will not give way — she was asleep when 
35 the news came; she may be asleep yet. She would be so utterly 
miserable, not merely at my father’s death, but to think of what 
would become of me; she is so good to me.” She looked up 
earnestly in their faces with her soft true eyes, and Miss Pole told 


THE CAPTAIN 


21 


Miss Jenkyns afterward she could hardly bear it, knowing, as 
she did, how Miss Brown treated her sister. 

However, it was settled according to Miss Jessie’s wish. Miss 
Brown was to be told her father had been summoned to take a 
short journey on railway business. They had managed it in 
some way— Miss Jenkyns could not exactly say how. Miss. Pole 
was to stop with Miss Jessie. Mrs. Jamieson had sent to in- 
quire. And this was all we heard that night; and a sorrowful 
night it was. The next day a full account of the fatal accident 
was in the county paper which Miss Jenkyns took in. Her eyes 
were very weak, she said, and she asked me to read it. When 
I came to the “gallant gentleman was deeply engaged in the 
perusal of a number of ‘Pickwick,’ which he had just received,” 
Miss Jenkyns shook her head long and solemnly, and then 
sighed out “Poor, dear, infatuated man!” 

The corpse was to be taken from the station to the parish 
church, there to be interred. Miss Jessie had set her heart on 
following it to the grave; and no dissuasives could alter her 
resolve. Her restraint upon herself made her almost obstinate; 
she resisted all Miss Pole’s entreaties and Miss Jenkyns’s advice. 
At last Miss Jenkyns gave up the point; and after a silence, 
which I feared portended some deep displeasure against Miss 
Jessie, Miss Jenkyns said she should accompany the latter to the 
funeral. 

“ It is not fit for you to go alone. It would be against both 
propriety and humanity were I to allow it.” 

Miss Jessie seemed as if she did not half like this arrangement; 
but her obstinacy, if she had any, had been exhausted in her de- 
termination to go to the interment. She longed, poor thing, I 
have no doubt, to cry alone over the grave of the dear father to 
whom she had been all in all, and to give way, for one little half- 
hour, uninterrupted by sympathy and unobserved by friendship. 
But it was not to be. That afternoon Miss Jenkyns sent out 
for a yard of black crape, and employed herself busily in trim- 
ming the little black silk bonnet I have spoken about. When it 
was finished she put it on, and looked at us for approbation — 
admiration she despised. I was full of sorrow, but, by one of 
those whimsical thoughts which come unbidden into our heads, 


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in times of deepest grief, I no sooner saw the bonnet than I was 
reminded of a helmet; and in that hybrid bonnet, half-helmet, 
half-jockey cap, did Miss Jenkyns attend Captain Brown’s 
funeral, and, I believe, supported Miss Jessie with a tender, in- 
dulgent firmness which was invaluable, allowing her to weep her 
passionate fill before they left. 

Miss Pole, Miss Matty, and I, meanwhile, attended to Miss 
Brown: and hard work we found it to relieve her querulous and 
never-ending complaints. But if we were so weary and dis- 
pirited, what must Miss Jessie have been! Yet she came back 
almost calm, as if she had gained a new strength. She put off 
her mourning dress, and came in, looking pale and gentle, thank- 
ing us each with a soft long pressure of the hand. She could 
even smile — a faint, sweet, wintry smile — as if to reassure us of 
her power to endure; but her look made our eyes fill suddenly 
with tears, more than if she had cried outright. 

It was settled that Miss Pole was to remain with her all the 
watching livelong night; and that Miss Matty and I were to 
return in the morning to relieve them, and give Miss Jessie the 
opportunity for a few hours of sleep. But when the morning 
came, Miss Jenkyns appeared at the breakfast-table, equipped 
in her helmet-bonnet, and ordered Miss Matty to stay at home, 
as she meant to go and help to nurse. She was evidently in a 
state of great friendly excitement, which she showed by eating 
her breakfast standing, and scolding the household all round. 

No nursing — no energetic strong-minded woman could help 
Miss Brown now. There was that in the room as we entered 
which was stronger than us all, and made us shrink into solemn 
awestruck helplessness. Miss Brown was dying. We hardly 
knew her voice, it was so devoid of the complaining tone we had 
always associated with it. Miss Jessie told me afterward that 
it, and her face too, were just what they had been formerly, 
when her mother’s death left her the young anxious head of the 
family, of whom only Miss Jessie survived. 

She was conscious of her sister’s presence, though not, I think, 
of ours. We stood a little behind the curtain: Miss Jessie knelt 
with her face near her sister’s, in order to catch the last soft awful 
whispers. 


THE CAPTAIN 


23 


“Oh, Jessie! Jessie! How selfish I have been! God forgive 
me for letting you sacrifice yourself for me as you did ! I have 
so loved you — and yet I have thought only of myself. God for- 
give me!” 

“Hush, love! hush!” said Miss Jessie, sobbing. 

“And my father! my dear, dear father! I will not complain 
now, if God will give me strength to be patient. But, oh, Jessie! 
tell my father how I longed and yearned to see him at last, and to 
ask his forgiveness. He can never know now how I loved him — 
oh! if I might but tell him, before I die! What a life of sorrow 
his has been, and I have done so little to cheer him!” 

A light came into Miss Jessie’s face. “ Would it comfort you, 
dearest, to think that he does know? — would it comfort you, 
love, to know that his cares, his sorrows — ” Her voice quiv- 
ered, but she steadied it into calmness — “Mary! he has gone 
before you to the place where the weary are at rest. He knows 
now how you loved him.” 

A strange look, which was not distress, came over Miss 
Brown’s face. She did not speak for some time, but then we 
saw her lips form the words, rather than heard the sound — 
“ Father, mother, Harry, Archy ;” — then, as if it were a new idea 
throwing a filmy shadow over her darkened mind — “But you 
will be alone, Jessie!” 

Miss Jessie had been feeling this all during the silence, I 
think; for the tears rolled down her cheeks like rain, at these 
words, and she could not answer at first. Then she put her hands 
together tight, and lifted them up, and said — but not to us — 

“Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.” 

In a few moments more Miss Brown lay calm and still — never 
to sorrow or murmur more. 

After this second funeral, Miss Jenkyns insisted that Miss 
Jessie should come to stay with her rather than go back to the 
desolate house, which, in fact, we learned from Miss Jessie, must 
now be given up, as she had not wherewithal to maintain it. 
She had something above twenty pounds a-year, besides the 
interest of the money for which the furniture would sell; but 
she could not live upon that: and so we talked over her qualifica- 
tions for earning money. 


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“I can sew neatly,” said she, “and I like nursing. I think, 
too, I could manage a house, if any one would try me as house- 
keeper; or I would go into a shop, as saleswoman, if they would 
have patience with me at first.” 

Miss Jenkyns declared, in an angry voice, that she should do 
no such thing; and talked to herself about “some people having 
no idea of their rank as a captain’s daughter,” nearly an hour 
afterward, when she brought Miss Jessie up a basin of delicately 
made arrow-root, and stood over her like a dragoon until the 
last spoonful was finished: then she disappeared. Miss Jessie 
began to tell me some more of the plans which had suggested 
themselves to her, and insensibly fell into talking of the days 
that were past and gone, and interested me so much I neither 
knew nor heeded how time passed. We were both startled 
when Miss Jenkyns reappeared, and caught us crying. I was 
afraid lest she would be displeased, as she often said that 
crying hindered digestion, and I knew she wanted Miss Jessie 
to get strong; but, instead, she looked queer and excited, and 
fidgeted round us without saying anything. At last she 
spoke. 

“I have been so much startled — no, I’ve not been at all 
startled — don’t mind me, my dear Miss Jessie — I’ve been very 
much surprised — in fact, I’ve had a caller, whom you knew once, 
my dear Miss Jessie ” 

Miss Jessie went very white, then flushed scarlet, and looked 
eagerly at Miss Jenkyns. 

“A gentleman, my dear, who wants to know if you would see 
him.” 

“Is it? — it is not — ” stammered out Miss Jessie — and got 
no farther. 

“This is his card,” said Miss Jenkyns, giving it to Miss 
Jessie; and while her head was bent over it, Miss Jenkyns went 
through a series of winks and odd faces to me, and formed her 
lips into a long sentence, of which, of course, I could not under- 
stand a word. 

“May he come up?” asked Miss Jenkyns, at last. 

“ Oh, yes! certainly! ” said Miss Jessie, as much as to say, this 
is your house, you may show any visitor where you like. She 


THE CAPTAIN 25 

took up some knitting of Miss Matty’s and began to be very 
busy, though I could see how she trembled all over. 

Miss Jenkyns rang the bell, and told the servant who answered 
it to show Major Gordon up-stairs; and, presently, in walked a 
tall, fine, frank-looking man of forty or upward. He shook 
hands with Miss Jessie; but he could not see her eyes, she kept 
them so fixed on the ground. Miss Jenkyns asked me if I 
would come and help her to tie up the preserves in the store- 
room; and, though Miss Jessie plucked at my gown, and even 
looked up at me with begging eye, I durst not refuse to go where 
Miss Jenkyns asked. Instead of tying up preserves in the store- 
room, however, we went to talk in the dining-room; and there 
Miss Jenkyns told me what Major Gordon had told her; — how 
he had served in the same regiment with Captain Brown, and 
had become acquainted with Miss Jessie, then a sweet-looking, 
blooming girl of eighteen; how the acquaintance had grown 
into love on his part, though it had been some years before he had 
spoken; how, oil becoming possessed, through the will of an 
uncle, of a good estate in Scotland, he had offered and been 
refused, though with so much agitation and evident distress that 
he was sure she was not indifferent to him ; and how he had dis- 
covered that the obstacle was the fell disease which was, even 
then, too surely threatening her sister. She had mentioned that 
the surgeon foretold intense suffering; and there was no one but 
herself to nurse her poor Mary, or cheer and comfort her father 
during the time of illness. They had had long discussions ; and 
on her refusal to pledge herself to him as his wife when all should 
be over, he had grown angry, and broken off entirely, and gone 
abroad, believing that she was a cold-hearted person whom he 
would do well to forget. He had been travelling in the East, and 
was on his return home when, at Rome, he saw the account of 
Captain Brown’s death in “Galignani.” 

Just then Miss Matty, who had been out all the morning, and 
had only lately returned to the house, burst in with a face of dis- 
may and outraged propriety. 

“Oh, goodness me!” she said. “Deborah, there’s a gentle- 
man sitting in the drawing-room with his arm round Miss Jes- 
sie’s waist! ” Miss Matty’s eyes looked large with terror. 


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Miss Jenkyns snubbed her down in an instant. 

“ The most proper place in the world for his arm to be in. Go ■ 
away, Matilda, and mind your own business.” This from her \ 
sister, who had hitherto been a model of feminine decorum, was 
5 a blow for poor Miss Matty, and with a double shock she left ■ 
the room. 

The last time I ever saw poor Miss Jenkyns was many years 
after this. Mrs. Gordon had kept up a warm and affectionate 
intercourse with all at Cranford. Miss Jenkyns, Miss Matty, 

10 and Miss Pole had all been to visit her, and returned with won- 
derful accounts of her house,, her husband, her dress, and her 
looks. For, with happiness, something of her early bloom re- 
turned; she had been a year or two younger than we had taken 
her for. Her eyes were always lovely, and, as Mrs. Gordon, her 
15 dimples were not out of place. At the time to which I have 
referred, when I last saw Miss Jenkyns, that lady was old and 
feeble, and had lost something of her strong mind. Little Flora 
Gordon was staying with the Misses Jenkyns, and when I came 
in she was reading aloud to Miss Jenkyns, who lay feeble and 
20 changed on the sofa. Flora put down the “Rambler” when I 
came in. 

“Ah!” said Miss Jenkyns, “you find me changed, my dear. 

I can’t see as I used to do. If Flora were not here to read to me, 

I hardly know how I should get through the day. Did you ever 
25 read the ‘Rambler’ ? It’s a wonderful book — wonderful! and 
the most improving reading for Flora ” (which I dare say it would 
have been, if she could have read half the words without spelling, 
and could have understood the meaning of a third), “better than 
that strange old book, with the queer name, poor Captain Brown 
30 was killed for reading — that book by Mr. Boz, you know — ‘ Old 
Poz;’ when I was a girl- — but that’s a long time ago — I acted 
Lucy in ‘Old Poz.’” She babbled on long enough for Flora to 
get a good long spell at the “Christmas Carol,” which Miss 
Matty had left on the table. 


A LOVE AFFAIR OF LONG AGO 


27 


CHAPTER III 

A LOVE AFFAIR OF LONG AGO 

I thought that probably my connection with Cranford would 
cease after Miss Jenkyns’s death; at least, that it would have 
to be kept up by correspondence, which bears much the same 
relation to personal intercourse that the books of dried plants I 
sometimes see (“Hortus Siccus,” I think they call the thing) do 
to the living and fresh flowers in the lanes and meadows. I was 
pleasantly surprised, therefore, by receiving a letter from Miss 
Pole (who had always come in for a supplementary week after 
my annual visit to Miss Jenkyns) proposing that I should go and 
stay with her; and then, in a couple of days after my acceptance, 
came a note from Miss Matty, in which, in a rather circuitous 
and very humble manner, she told me how much pleasure I 
should confer if I could spend a week or two with her, either 
before or after I had been at Miss Pole’s; “for,” she said, “ since 
my dear sister’s death I am well aware I have no attractions to 
offer; it is only to the kindness of my friends that I can owe 
their company.” 

Of course I promised to come to dear Miss Matty as soon as I 
had ended my visit to Miss Pole; and the day after my arrival at 
Cranford I went to see her, much wondering what the house 
would be like without Miss Jenkyns, and rather dreading the 
changed aspect of things. Miss Matty began to cry as soon as 
she saw me. She was evidently nervous from having anticipated 
my call. I comforted her as well as I could; and I found the 
best consolation I could give was the honest praise that came 
from my heart as I spoke of the deceased. Miss Matty slowly 
shook her head over each virtue as it was named and attributed 
to her sister; and at last she could not restrain the tears which 
had long been silently flowing, but hid her face behind her 
handkerchief, and sobbed aloud. 

“Dear Miss Matty!” said I, taking her hand — for indeed I did 
not know in what way to tell her how sorry I was for her, left 
deserted in the world. She put down her handkerchief, and said : 


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“My dear, I’d rather you did not call me Matty. She did not 
like it; but I did many a thing she did not like, I’m afraid — and 
now she’s gone! If you please, my love, will you call me Ma- 
tilda?” 

I promised faithfully, and began to practise the new name 
with Miss Pole that very day; and, by degrees, Miss Matilda’s 
feeling on the subject was known through Cranford, and we all 
tried to drop the more familiar name, but with so little success 
that by and by we gave up the attempt. 

My visit to Miss Pole was very quiet. Miss Jenkyns had so 
long taken the lead in Cranford that, now she was gone, they 
hardly knew how to give a party. The Honorable Mrs. Jamie- 
son, to whom Miss Jenkyns herself had always yielded the post 
of honor, was fat and inert, and very mucjj at the mercy of her 
old servants. If they chose that she should give a party, they 
reminded her of the necessity for so doing: if not, she let it alone. 
There was all the more time for me to hear old-world stories 
from Miss Pole, while she sat knitting, and I making my father’s 
shirts. I always took a quantity of plain sewing to Cranford; 
for, as we did not read much, or walk much, I found it a capital 
time to get through my work. One of Miss Pole’s stories related 
to a shadow of a love affair that was dimly perceived or suspected 
long years before. 

Presently, the time arrived when I was to remove to Miss 
Matilda’s house. I found her timid and anxious about the ar- 
rangements for my comfort. Many a time, while I was unpack- 
ing, did she come backward and forward to stir the fire, which 
burned all the worse for being so frequently poked. 

“ Have you drawers enough, dear ? ” asked she. “ I don’t know 
exactly how my sister used to arrange them. She had capital 
methods. I am sure she would have trained a servant in a week 
to make a better fire than this, and Fanny has been with me four 
months.” 

This subject of servants was a standing grievance, and I could 
not wonder much at it; for if gentlemen were scarce, and almost 
unheard of in the “genteel society” of Cranford, they or their 
counterparts — handsome young men — abounded in the lower 
classes. The pretty neat servant-maids had their choice of 


■ 


A LOVE AFFAIR OF LONG AGO 


29 


desirable “followers;” and their mistresses, without having the 
sort of mysterious dread of men and matrimony that Miss 
Matilda had, might well feel a little anxious lest the heads of their 
comely maids should be turned by the joiner, or the butcher, 
or the gardener, who were obliged, by their callings, to come to 
the house, and who, as ill-luck would have it, -were generally 
handsome and unmarried. Fanny’s lovers, if she had any — and 
Miss Matilda suspected her of so many flirtations that, if she 
had not been very pretty, I should have doubted her having one 
— were a constant anxiety to her mistress. She was forbidden, 
by the articles of her engagement, to have “followers;” and 
though she had answered, innocently enough, doubling up the 
hem of her apron as she spoke, “Please, ma’am, I never had 
more than one at a time,” Miss Matty prohibited that one. 
But a vision of a man seemed to haunt the kitchen. Fanny 
assured me that it was all fancy, or else I should have said my- 
self that I had seen a man’s coat-tails whisk into the scullery 
once, when I went on an errand into the store-room at night; 
and another evening, when, our watches having stopped, I 
went to look at the clock, there was a very odd appearance, 
singularly like a young man squeezed up between the clock and 
the back of the open kitchen-door: and I thought Fanny 
snatched up the candle very hastily, so as to throw tlje shadow on 
the clock-face, while she very positively told me the time half an 
hour too early, as we found out afterward by the church clock. 
But I did not add to Miss Matty’s anxieties by naming my sus- 
picions, especially as Fanny said to me, the next day, that it was 
such a queer kitchen for having odd shadows about it, she really 
was almost afraid to stay; “for you know, miss,” she added, “I 
don’t see a creature from six o’clock tea, till Missus rings the bell 
for prayers at ten.” 

However, it so fell out that Fanny had to leave; and Miss 
Matilda begged me to stay and “settle her” with the new maid; 
to which I consented, after I had heard from my father that he 
did not want me at home. The new servant was a rough, 
honest-looking country girl, who had only lived in a farm place 
before; but I liked her looks when she came to be hired; and I 
promised Miss Matilda to put her in the ways of the house. 


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The said ways were religiously such as Miss Matilda thought her 
sister would approve. Many a domestic rule and regulation had 
been a subject of plaintive whispered murmur to me during Miss 
Jenkyns’s life; but now that she was gone, I do not think that 
5 even I, who was a favorite, durst have suggested an alteration. 
To give an instance: we constantly adhered to the forms which 
were observed, at meal times, in “ my father, the rector’s house.” 
Accordingly, we had always wine and dessert; but the decanters 
were only filled when there was a party, and what remained was 
10 seldom touched, though we had two wine glasses apiece every 
day after dinner, until the next festive occasion arrived, when the 
state of the remainder wine was examined into in a family coun- 
cil. The dregs were often given to the poor; but occasionally, 
when a good deal had been left at the last party (five months 
15 ago, it might be), it was added to some of a fresh bottle, brought 
up from the cellar. I fancy poor Captain Brown did not much 
like wine, for I noticed he never finished his first glass, and most 
military men take several. Then, as to our dessert, Miss 
Jenkyns used to gather currants and gooseberries for it herself, 
20 which I sometimes thought would have tasted better fresh from 
the trees; but then, as Miss Jenkyns observed, there would have 
been nothing for dessert in summer-time. As it was, we felt 
very genteel with our two glasses apiece, and a dish of goose r 
berries at the top, of currants and biscuit at the sides, and two 
25 decanters at the bottom. When oranges came in, a curious pro- 
ceeding was gone through. Miss Jenkyns did not like to cut 
the fruit; for, as she observed, the juice all ran out nobody 
knew where; sucking (only I think she used some more recon- 
dite word) was in fact the only way of enjoying oranges; but 
30 then there was the unpleasant association with a ceremony 
frequently gone through by little babies; and so, after dessert, 
in orange season, Miss Jenkyns and Miss Matty used to rise up, 
possess themselves each of an orange in silence, and withdraw 
to the privacy of their own rooms to indulge in sucking oranges. 
35 I had once or twice tried, on such occasions, to prevail on Miss 
•Matty to stay, and had succeeded in her sister’s lifetime. I held 
up a screen, and did not look, and, as she said, she tried not to 
make the noise very offensive; but now that she was left alone, 


A LOVE AFFAIR OF LONG AGO 


31 


she seemed quite horrified when I begged her to remain with 
me in the warm dining-parlor, and enjoy her orange as she liked 
best. And so it was in everything. Miss Jenkyns’s rules were 
made more stringent than ever, because the framer of them was 
gone where there could be no appeal. In all things else Miss 
Matilda was meek and undecided to a fault. I have heard 
Fanny turn her round twenty times in a morning about dinner, 
just as the little hussy chose; and I sometimes fancied she 
worked on Miss Matilda’s weakness in order to bewilder her, 
and to make her feel more in the power of her clever servant. I 
determined that I would not leave her till I had seen what sort 
of a person Martha was; and, if I found her trustworthy, I 
would tell her not to trouble her mistress with every little de- 
cision. 

Martha was blunt and plain-spoken to a fault ; otherwise she 
was a brisk, well-meaning, but very ignorant girl. She had not 
been with us a week before Miss Matilda and I were astounded 
one morning by the receipt of a letter from a cousin of hers, who 
had been twenty or thirty years in India, and who had lately, as 
we had seen by the “Army List,” returned to England, bringing 
with him an invalid wife who had never been introduced to her 
English relations. Major Jenkyns wrote to propose that he and 
his wife should spend a night at Cranford, on his way to Scotland 
— at the inn, if it did not suit Miss Matilda to receive them into 
her house; in which case they should hope to be with her as 
much as possible during the day. Of course, it must suit her, as 
she said; for all Cranford knew that she had her sister’s bed- 
room at liberty; but I am sure she wished the major had stopped 
in India, and forgotten his cousins out and out. 

“Oh! how must I manage?” asked she, helplessly. “If 
Deborah had been alive she would have known what to do with a 
gentleman visitor. Must I put razors in his dressing-room? 
Dear! dear! and I’ve got none. Deborah would have had 
them. And slippers, and coat-brushes?” I suggested that 
probably he would bring all these things with him. “And after 
dinner, how am I to know when to get up and leave him to his 
wine? Deborah would have done it so well; she would have 
been quite in her element. Will he want coffee, do you think ? ” 


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I undertook the management of the coffee, and told her I would 
instruct Martha in the art of waiting — in which it must be owned 
she was terribly deficient — and that I had no doubt Major aiid 
Mrs. Jenkyns would understand the quiet mode in which a lady 
5 lived by herself in a country town. But she was sadly fluttered. 
I made her empty her decanters and bring up two fresh bottles 
of wine. I wished I could have prevented her from being present 
at my instructions to Martha, for she frequently cut in with some 
fresh direction, muddling the poor girl’s mind, as she stood open- 
10 mouthed, listening to us both. 

“ Hand the vegetables round,” said I (foolishly, I see now — 
for it was aiming at more than we could accomplish with quiet- 
ness and simplicity) ; and then, seeing her look bewildered, I 
added, “Take the vegetables round to people, and let them help 
15 themselves.” 

“And mind you go first to the ladies,” put in Miss Matilda. 
“ Always go to the ladies before gentlemen when you are waiting.” 

“I’ll do it as you tell me, ma’am,” said Martha; “but I like 
lads best.” 

20 We felt very uncomfortable and shocked at this speech of 
Martha’s, yet I don’t think she meant any harm; and, on the 
whole, she attended very well to our directions, except that she 
“nudged” the major when he did not help himself as soon as she 
expected to the potatoes, while she was handing them round. 

25 The major and his wife were quiet, unpretending people 
enough when they did come; languid, as all East Indians are, 
I suppose. We were rather dismayed at their bringing two 
servants with them, a Hindoo body-servant for the major, and a 
steady elderly maid for his wife; but they slept at the inn, and 
30 took off a good deal of the responsibility by attending carefully 
to their master’s and mfstress’s comfort. Martha, to be sure, 
had never ended her staring at the East Indian’s white turban 
and brown complexion, and I saw that Miss Matilda shrunk away 
from him a little as he waited at dinner. Indeed, she asked me, 
35 when they were gone, if he did not remind me of Blue Beard? 
On the whole, the visit was most satisfactory, and is a subject 
of conversation even now with Miss Matilda; at the time, it 
greatly excited Cranford, and even stirred up the apathetic and 


A LOVE AFFAIR OF LONG AGO 


33 


Honorable Mrs. Jamieson to some expression of interest, when 
I went to call and thank her for the kind answers she had vouch- 
safed to Miss Matilda’s inquiries as to the arrangement of a 
gentleman’s dressing-room — answers which I must confess 
she had given in the wearied manner of the Scandinavian 
prophetess — 

“Leave me, leave me to repose.” 

And now I come to the love affair. 

It seems that Miss Pole had a cousin, once or twice removed, 
who had offered to Miss Matty long ago. Now this cousin lived 
four or five miles from Cranford on his own estate; but his prop- 
erty was not large enough to entitle him to rank higher than a 
yeoman; or rather, with something of the “pride which apes 
humility,” he had refused to push himself on, as so many of his 
class had done, into the ranks of the squires. He would not 
allow himself to be called Thomas Holbrook, Esq.; he even sent 
back letters with this address, telling the postmistress at Cran- 
ford that his name was Mr. Thomas Holbrook, yeoman. He 
rejected all domestic innovations; he would have the house door 
stand open in summer and shut in winter, without knocker or 
bell to summon a servant. The closed fist or the knob of the 
stick did this office for him if he found the door locked. He 
despised every refinement which had not its root deep down in 
humanity. If people were not ill, he saw no necessity for moder- 
ating his voice. He spoke the dialect of the country in perfec- 
tion, and constantly used it in conversation; although Miss Pole 
(w r ho gave me these particulars) added, that he read aloud more 
beautifully and with more feeling than any one she had ever 
heard, except the late rector. 

“And how came Miss Matilda not to marry him?” 
asked I. 

“ Oh, I don’t know. She was willing enough, I think; but you 
know cousin Thomas would not have been enough of a gentle- 
man for the rector and Miss Jenkyns.” 

“Well! but they were not to marry him,” said I, impatiently. 

“No; but. they did not like Miss Matty to marry below her 
rank. You know she was the rector’s daughter, and somehow 


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34 CRANFORD 

they are related to Sir Peter Arley Miss Jenkyns thought a 
deal of that.” 

“Poor Miss Matty!” said I. 

“Nay, now, I don’t know anything more than that he offered 
5 and was refused. Miss Matty might not like him — and Miss 
Jenkyns might never have said a word — it is only a guess of 
mine.” 

“Has she never seen him since?” I inquired. 

“ No, I think not. You see Woodley, cousin Thomas’s house, 
10 lies half-way between Cranford and Misselton; and I know he 
made Misselton his market-town very soon after he had offered 
to Miss Matty; and I don’t think he has been into Cranford 
above once or twice since — once, when I was walking with Miss 
Matty, in High Street, and suddenly she darted from me, and 
15 went up Shire Lane. A few minutes after I was startled by 
meeting cousin Thomas.” 

“How old is he?” I asked, after a pause of castle-building. 

“He must be about seventy, I think, my dear,” said Miss 
Pole, blowing up my castle, as if by gunpowder, into small 
20 fragments. 

Very soon after — at least during my long visit to Miss Matilda 
— I had the opportunity of seeing Mr. Holbrook; seeing, too, 
his first encounter with his former love, after thirty or forty years’ 
separation. I was helping to decide whether any of the new 
25 assortment of colored silks which they had just received at the 
shop would do to match a gray and black mousseline-de-laine 
that wanted a new breadth, when a tall, thin, Don Quixote- 
looking old man came into the shop for some woollen gloves. I 
had never seen the person (who was rather striking) before, and 
30 I watched him rather attentively while Miss Matty listened to the 
shopman. The stranger wore a blue coat with brass buttons, 
drab breeches, and gaiters, and drummed with his fingers on 
the counter until he was attended to. When he answered the 
shop-boy’s question, “What can I have the pleasure of showing 
35 you to-day, sir?” I saw Miss Matilda start, and then suddenly 
sit down; and instantly I guessed who it was. She had made 
some inquiry which had to be carried round to the other shop- 
man. 


A VISIT TO AN OLD BACHELOR 


35 


“ Miss Jenkyns wants the black sarsenet two-and-twopence the 
yard;” and Mr. Holbrook had caught the name, and was across 
the shop in two strides. 

“Matty — Miss Matilda — Miss Jenkyns! God bless my soul! 

I should not have known you. How are you? how are you?” 5 
He kept shaking her hand in a way which proved the warmth of 
his friendship; but he repeated so often, as if to himself, “I 
should not have known you!” that any sentimental romance 
which I might be inclined to build was quite done away with by 
his manner. 10 

However, he kept talking to us all the time we were in the 
shop, and then waving the shopman with the unpurchased 
gloves on one side, with “Another time, sir! another time!” he 
walked home with us. I am happy to say my client, Miss 
Matilda, also left the shop in an equally bewildered state, not 15 
having purchased either green or red silk. Mr. Holbrook was 
evidently full with honest, loud-spoken joy at meeting his old 
love again; he touched on the changes that had taken place; 
he even spoke of Miss Jenkyns as “Your poor sister! Well, 
well! we have all our faults;” and bade us good-by with many 20 
a hope that he should soon see Miss Matty again. She went 
straight to her room, and never came back till our early tea-time, 
when I thought she looked as if she had been crying. 


CHAPTER IV 

A VISIT TO AN OLD BACHELOR 

A few days after, a note came from Mr. Holbrook, asking us — 
impartially asking both of us — in a formal, old-fashioned style, 25 
to spend a day at his house — a long June day — for it was June 
now. He named that he had also invited his cousin, Miss Pole; 
so that we might join in a fly, which could be put up at his house. 

I expected Miss Matty to jump at this invitation; but, no! 
Miss Pole and I had the greatest difficulty in persuading her to 30 
go. She thought it was improper; and was even half annoyed 
when we utterly ignored the idea of any impropriety in her going 


36 


CRANFORD 


with two other ladies to see her old lover. Then came a more 
serious difficulty. She did not think Deborah would have liked 
her to go. This took us half a day’s good hard talking to get 
over; but, at the first sentence of relenting, I seized the oppor- 
5 tunity, and wrote and despatched an acceptance in her name — 
fixing day and hour, that all might be decided and done with. 

The next morning she asked me if I would go down to the 
shop with her; and there, after much hesitation, we chose out 
three caps to be sent home and tried on, that the most becoming 
10 might be selected to take with us on Thursday. 

She was in a state of silent agitation all the way to Woodley. 
She had evidently never been there before; and, although she 
little dreamed I knew anything of her early story, I could perceive 
she was in a tremor at the thought of seeing the place which might 
15 have been her home, and round which it is probable that many of 
her innocent girlish imaginations had clustered. It was a long 
drive there, through paved jolting lanes. Miss Matilda sat bolt 
upright, and looked wistfully out of the windows as we drew 
near the end of our journey. The aspect of the country was 
20 quiet and pastoral. Woodley stood among fields; and there was 
an old-fashioned garden where roses and currant-bushes touched 
each other, and where the feathery asparagus formed a pretty 
background to the pinks and gilly-flowers; there was no drive 
up to the door. We got out at a little gate, and walked up a 
25 straight box-edged path. 

“My cousin might make a drive, I think,” said Miss Pole, who 
* was afraid of ear-ache, and had only her cap on. 

“I think it is very pretty,” said Miss Matty, with a soft 
plaintiveness in her voice, and almost in a whisper, for just then 
30 Mr. Holbrook appeared at the door, rubbing his hands in very 
effervescence of hospitality. He looked more like my idea of 
Don Quixote than ever, and yet the likeness was only external. 
His respectable housekeeper stood modestly at the door to bid us 
welcome; and, while she led the elder ladies up-stairs to a bed- 
35 room, I begged to look about the garden. My request evidently 
pleased the old gentleman, who took me all round the place, and 
showed me his six-and-twenty cows, named after the different 
letters of the alphabet. As we went along, he surprised me 


37 


A VISIT TO AN OLD BACHELOR 

occasionally by repeating apt and beautiful quotations from the 
poets, ranging easily from Shakespeare and George Herbert to 
those of our own day. He did this as naturally as if he were 
thinking aloud, and their true and beautiful words were the best 
expression he could find for what he was thinking or feeling. 
To be sure he called Byron “my Lord Byrron, ,, and pronounced 
the name of Goethe strictly in accordance with the English 
sound of the letters — “As Goethe says, ‘Ye ever-verdant pal- 
aces,’ ” &c. Altogether, I never met with a man, before or 
since, who had spent so long a life in a secluded and not im- 
pressive country, with ever-increasing delight in the daily and 
yearly change of season and beauty. 

When he and I went in, we found that dinner was nearly ready 
in the kitchen — for so I suppose the room ought to be called, as 
there were oak dressers and cupboards all round, all over by the 
side of the fireplace, and only a small Turkey carpet in the 
middle of the flag floor. The room might have been easily 
made into a handsome dark-oak dining parlor by removing the 
oven and a few other appurtenances of a kitchen, which were 
evidently never used, the real cooking place being at some 
distance. The room in which we were expected to sit was a 
stiffly furnished, ugly apartment; but that in which we did sit 
was what Mr. Holbrook called the counting-house, when he paid 
his laborers their weekly wages at a great desk near the door. 
The rest of the pretty sitting-room — looking into the orchard, 
and all covered over with dancing tree-shadows — was filled with 
books. They lay on the ground, they covered the walls, they 
strewed the table. He was evidently half-ashamed and half- 
proud of his extravagance in this respect. They were of all 
kinds — poetry and wild weird tales prevailing. He evidently 
chose his books in accordance with his own tastes, not because 
such and such were classical or established favorites. 

“Ah!” he said, “we farmers ought not to have much time for 
reading; yet somehow one can’t help it.” 

“What a pretty room!” said Miss Matty, sotto voce. 

“ What a pleasant place! ” said I, aloud, almost simultaneously. 

“Nay! if you like it,” replied he; “but can you sit on these 
great black leather three-cornered chairs ? I like it better than 


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38 CRANFORD 

the best parlor; but I thought ladies would take that for the 
smarter place.” 

It was the smarter place, but, like most smart things, not at all 
pretty, or pleasant, or home-like; so, while we were at dinner, 
the servant girl dusted and scrubbed the counting-house chairs, 
and we sat there all the rest of the day. 

We had pudding before meat; and I thought Mr. Holbrook 
was going to make some apology for his old-fashioned ways, for 
he began: 

“ I don’t know whether you like new-fangled ways.” 

“Oh, not at all!” said Miss Matty. 

“No more do I,” said he. “My housekeeper will have these 
in her new fashion; or else I tell her that, when I was a young 
man, we used to keep strictly to my father’s rule, ‘ No broth, no 
ball; no ball, no beef;’ and always began dinner with broth. 
Then we had suet puddings, boiled in the broth with the beef; 
and then the meat itself. If we did not sup our broth, we had 
no ball, which we liked a deal better; and the beef came last 
of all, and only those had it who had done justice to the broth 
and the ball. Now folks begin with sweet things, and turn their 
dinners topsy-turvy.” 

When the ducks and green peas came, we looked at each other 
in dismay; we had only two-pronged, black-handled forks. It 
is true the steel was as bright as silver; but what were we to do ? 
Miss Matty picked up her peas, one by one, on the point of the 
prongs, much as Amine ate her grains of rice after her previous 
feast with the Ghoul. Miss Pole sighed over her delicate young 
peas as she left them on one side of her plate untasted, for they 
would drop between the prongs. I looked at my host: the peas 
were going wholesale into his capacious mouth, shovelled up by 
his large, round-ended knife. I saw, I imitated, I survived! 
My friends, in spite of my precedent, could not muster up 
courage enough to do an ungen teel thing; and, if Mr. ifolbrook 
had not been so heartily hungry, he would probably have seen 
that the good peas went away almost untouched. 

After dinner, a clay pipe was brought in, and a spittoon; and, 
asking us to retire to another room, where he would soon join us, 
if we disliked tobacco-smoke, he presented his pipe to Miss 


A VISIT TO AN OLD BACHELOR 


39 


Matty, and requested her to fill the bowl. This was a compli- 
ment to a lady in his youth; but it was rather inappropriate 
to propose it as an honor to Miss Matty, who had been trained 
by her sister to hold smoking of every kind in utter abhorrence, 
But if it was a shock to her refinement, it was also a gratification 
to her feelings to be thus selected; so she daintily stuffed the 
strong tobacco into the pipe, and then we withdrew. 

“ It is very pleasant dining with a bachelor,” said Miss Matty, 
softly, as we settled ourselves in the counting-house. “I only 
hope it is not improper; so many pleasant things are!” 

“What a number of books he has!” said Miss Pole, looking 
round the room. “And how dusty they are!” 

“ I think it must be like one of the great Dr. Johnson’s rooms,” 
said Miss Matty. “ What a superior man your cousin must be ! ” 

“Yes!” said Miss Pole, “he’s a great reader; but I am afraid 
he. has got into very uncouth habits with living alone.” 

“Oh! uncouth is too hard a word. I should call him ec- 
centric; very clever people always are!” replied Miss Matty. 

When Mr. Holbrook returned, he proposed a walk in the 
fields; but the two elder ladies were afraid of damp, and dirt, 
and had only very unbecoming calashes to put on over their 
caps; so they declined, and I was again his companion in a turn 
which he said he was obliged to take to see after his men. He 
strode along, either wholly forgetting my existence, or soothed 
into silence by his pipe — and yet it was not silence exactly. He 
walked before me, with a stooping gait, his hands clasped behind 
him ; and, as some tree or cloud, or glimpse of distant upland 
pastures, struck him, he quoted poetry to himself, saying it out 
loud in a grand, sonorous voice, with just the emphasis that true 
feeling and appreciation give. We came upon an old cedar- 
tree, which stood at one end of the house — 

“The cedar spreads his dark-green layers of shade.” 

“Capital term — ‘layers!’ Wonderful man!” I did not know 
whether he was speaking to me or not; but I put in an assenting 
“wonderful,” although I knew nothing about it, just because I 
was tired of being forgotten, and of being consequently silent. 

He turned sharp round. “Ay! you may say ‘wonderful.’ 


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Why, when I saw the review of his poems in ‘ Blackwood,’ I set 
off within an hour, and walked seven miles to Misselton (for 
the horses were not in the way) and ordered them. Now, what 
color are ash-buds in March ? ” 

5 Is the man going mad? thought I. He is very like Don 
Quixote. 

“What color are they, I say?” repeated he, vehemently. 

“ I am sure I don’t know, sir,” said I, with the meekness of 
ignorance. 

10 “ I knew you didn’t. No more did I — an old fool that I am! — 

till this young man comes and tells me. Black as ash-buds in 
March. And I’ve lived all my life in the country; more shame 
for me not to know. Black: they are jet-black, madam.” And 
he went off again, swinging along to the music of some rime 
15 he had got hold off. 

When we came back, nothing would serve him but he must 
read us the poems he had been speaking of ; and Miss Pole en- 
couraged him in his proposal, I thought, because she wished me 
to hear his beautiful reading, of which she had boasted; but she 
20 afterward said it was because she had got to a difficult part of 
her crochet, and wanted to count her stitches without having to 
talk. Whatever he had proposed would have been right to Miss 
Matty; although she did fall sound asleep within five minutes 
after he had begun a long poem, called ‘Locksley Hall,’ and had 
25 a comfortable nap, unobserved, till he ended ; when the cessation 
of his voice wakened her up, and she said, feeling that something 
was expected, and that Miss Pole was counting — 

“What a pretty book!” 

“Pretty, madam! it’s beautiful! Pretty, indeed!” 

30 “Oh yes! I meant beautiful !” said she, fluttered at his disap- 
proval of her word. “It is so like that beautiful poem of Dr. 
Johnson’s my sister used to read — I forget the name of it; what 
was it, my dear?” turning to me. 

“ Which do you mean, ma’am ? What was it about ? ” 

35 “ I don’t remember what it was about, and I’ve quite forgotten 

what the name of it was; but it was written by Dr. Johnson, and 
was very beautiful and very like what Mr. Holbrook has just been 
reading.” 


41 


A VISIT TO AN OLD BACHELOR 

“I don’t remember it,” said he, reflectively. “But I don’t 
know Dr. Johnson’s poems well. I must read them.” 

As we were getting into the fly to return, I heard Mr. Holbrook 
say he should call on the ladies soon, and inquire how they got 
home; and this evidently pleased and fluttered Miss Matty at the 
time he said it; but after we had lost sight of the old house among 
the trees her sentiments toward the master of it were gradually 
absorbed into a distressing wonder as to whether Martha had 
broken her word, and seized on the opportunity of her mistress’s 
absence to have a “ follower.” Martha looked good, and steady, 
and composed enough, as she came to help us out; she was 
always careful of Miss Matty, and to-night she made use of this 
unlucky speech: 

“Eh! dear ma’am, to think of your going out in an evening in 
such a thin shawl! It’s no better than muslin. At your age, 
ma’am, you should be careful.” 

“My age!” said Miss Matty, almost speaking crossly, for her, 
for she was usually gentle — “My age! Why, how old do you 
think I am, that you talk about my age?” 

“Well, ma’am, I should say you were not far short of sixty: 
but folks’ looks is often against them — and I’m sure I meant no 
harm.” 

“Martha, I’m not yet fifty-two!” said Miss Matty, with grave 
emphasis; for probably the remembrance of her youth had 
come very vividly before her this day, and she was annoyed at 
finding that golden time so far away in the past. 

But she never spoke of any former and more intimate ac- 
quaintance with Mr. Holbrook. She had probably met with so 
little sympathy in her early love, that she had shut it up close 
in her heart; and it was only by a sort of watching, which I 
could hardly avoid since Miss Pole’s confidence, that I 
saw how faithful her poor heart had been in its sorrow and its 
silence. 

She gave me some good reason for wearing her best cap every 
day, and sat near the window, in spite of her rheumatism, in 
order to see, without being seen, down into the street. 

He came. He put his open palms upon his knees, which were 
far apart, as he sat with his head bent down, whistling, after we 


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42 CRANFORD 

had replied to his inquiries about our safe return. Suddenly, he 
jumped up: , 

“Well, madam! have you any commands for Paris? I am 
going there in a week or two.” 

“To Paris!” we both exclaimed. 

“Yes, madam! I’ve never been there, and always had a 
wish to go; and I think if I don’t go soon, I mayn’t go at all; 
so as soon as the hay is got in I shall go, before harvest 
time.” 

We were so much astonished that we had no commissions. 

Just as he was going out of the room, he turned back, with 
his favorite exclamation : 

“God bless my soul, madam! but I nearly forgot half my 
errand. Here are the poems for you you admired so much the 
other evening at my house.” He tugged away at a parcel in his 
coat-pocket. “Good-by, miss,” said he; “ good-by , Matty ! take 
care of yourself.” And he was gone. But he had given her a 
book, and he had called her Matty, just as he used to do thirty 
years ago. 

“I wish he would not go to Paris,” said Miss Matilda, 
anxiously. “ I don’t believe frogs will agree with him; he used 
to have to be very careful what he ate, which was curious in so 
strong looking a young man.” 

Soon after this I took my leave, giving many an injunction to 
Martha to look after her mistress, and to let me know if she 
thought that Miss Matilda was not so well; in which case I 
would volunteer a visit to my old friend, without noticing 
Martha’s intelligence to her. 

Accordingly I received a line or two from Martha every now 
and then; and, about November, I had a note to say her mistress 
was “very low and sadly off her food”; and the account made 
me so uneasy that, although Martha did not decidedly summon 
me, I packed up my things and went. 

I received a warm welcome, in spite of the little flurry pro- 
duced by my impromptu visit, for I had only been able to give 
a day’s notice. Miss Matilda looked miserably ill; and I 
prepared to comfort and cosset her. 

I went down to have a private talk with Martha. 


43 


A VISIT TO AN OLD BACHELOR 

“How long has your mistress been so poorly ?” I asked, as I 
stood by the kitchen fire. 

“Well! I think it’s better than a fortnight; it is, I know; it 
was one Tuesday, after Miss Pole had been, that she went into 
this moping way. I thought she was tired, and it would go off 
with a night’s rest; but no! she has gone on and on ever since, 
till I thought it my duty to write to you, ma’am.” 

“You did quite right, Martha. It is a comfort to think she 
has so faithful a servant about her. And I hope you find your 
place comfortable?” 

“Well, ma’am, missus is very kind, and there’s plenty to eat 
and drink, and no more work but what I can do easily — but 
— ” Martha hesitated. 

“But what, Martha?” 

“Why, it seems so hard of missus not to let me have any fol- 
lowers; there’s such lots of young fellows in the town; and 
many a one has as much as offered to keep company with me; 
and I may never be in such a likely place again, and it’s like 
wasting an opportunity. Many a girl as I know would have 
’em unbeknownst to missus; but I’ve given my word, and I’ll 
stick to it; or else this is just the house for missus never to be the 
wiser if they did come: and it’s such a capable kitchen — there’s 
such good dark corners in it — I’d be bound to hide any one. 
I counted up last Sunday night — for I’ll not deny I was crying 
because I had to shut the door in Jem Hearn’s face, and he’s a 
steady young man, fit for any girl; only I had given missus my 
word.” Martha was all but crying again; and I had little 
comfort to give her, for I knew, from old experience, of the horror 
with which both the Miss Jenkynses looked upon “followers;” 
and in Miss Matty’s present nervous state this dread was not 
likely to be lessened. 

I went to see Miss Pole the next day, and took her completely 
by surprise, for she had not been to see Miss Matilda for two 
days. 

“ And now I must go back with you, my dear, for I promised to 
let her know how Thomas Holbrook went on; and, I’m sorry to 
say, his housekeeper has sent me word to-day that he hasn’t long 
to live. Poor Thomas! that journey to Paris was quite too 


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much for him. His housekeeper says he has hardly ever been 
round his fields since, but just sits with his hands on his knees in 
the counting-house, not reading or anything, but only saying 
what a wonderful city Paris was! Paris has much to answer 
for if it’s killed my cousin Thomas, for a better man never 
lived.” 

“Does Miss Matilda know of his illness?” asked I — a new 
light as to the cause of her indisposition dawning upon me. 

“Dear! to be sure, yes! Has not she told you? I let her 
know a fortnight ago, or more, when first I heard of it. How 
odd she shouldn’t have told you!” 

Not at all, I thought; but I did not say anything. I felt 
almost guilty of having spied too curiously into that tender heart, 
and I was not going to speak of its secrets — hidden, Miss Matty 
believed, from all the world. I ushered Miss Pole into Miss 
Matilda’s little drawing-room, and then left them alone. But I 
was not surprised when Martha came to my bedroom door, to 
ask me to go down to dinner alone, for that missus had one of her 
bad headaches. She came into the drawing-room at tea-time, 
but it was evidently an effort to her; and, as if to make up for 
some reproachful feeling against her late sister, Miss Jenkyns, 
which had been troubling her all the afternoon, and for which 
she now felt penitent, she kept telling me how good and how 
clever Deborah was in her youth; how she used to settle what 
gowns they were to wear at all the parties (faint, ghostly ideas 
of grim parties, far away in the distance, when Miss Matty and 
Miss Pole were young!) ; and how Deborah and her mother had 
started the benefit society for the poor, and taught girls cooking 
and plain sewing; and how Deborah had once danced with a 
lord; and how she used to visit at Sir Peter Arley’s, and try to 
remodel the quiet rectory establishment on the plans of Arlev 
Hall, where they kept thirty servants; and how she had nursed 
Miss Matty through a long, long illness, of which I had never 
heard before, but which I now dated in my own mind as follow- 
ing the dismissal of the suit of Mr. Holbrook. So we talked softly 
and quietly of old times through the long November evening. 

The next day Miss Pole brought us word that Mr. Holbrook 
was dead. Miss Matty heard the news in silence; in fact, from 


A VISIT TO AN OLD BACHELOR 45 

the account of the previous day, it was only what we had to 
expect. Miss Pole kept calling upon us for some expression of 
regret, by asking if it was not sad that he was gone, and saying: 

“To think of that pleasant day last June, when he seemed so 
well! And he might have lived this dozen years if he had not 
gone to that wicked Paris, where they are always having revo- 
lutions.” 

She paused for some demonstration on our part. I saw Miss 
Matty could not speak, she was trembling so nervously; so I said 
what I really felt : and after a call of some duration — all the time 
of which I have no doubt Miss Pole thought Miss Matty received 
the news very calmly — our visitor took her leave. 

I Miss Matty made a strong effort to conceal her feelings — a 
concealment she practised even with me, for she has never 
alluded to Mr. Holbrook again, although the book he gave her 
lies with her Bible on the little table by her bedside. She did not 
think I heard her when she asked the little milliner of Cranford 
to make her caps something like the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson’s, 
or that I noticed the reply — 

“ But she wears widows’ caps, ma’am ? ” 

“ Oh ? I only meant something in that style; not widows’, of 
course, but rather like Mrs. Jamieson’s.” 

This effort at concealment was the beginning of the tremulous 
motion of head and hands which I have seen ever since in Miss 
Matty. 

The evening of the day on which we heard of Mr. Holbrook’s 
death, Miss Matilda was very silent and thoughtful; after 
prayers she called Martha back, and then she stood, uncertain 
what to say. 

“Martha!” she said, at last, “you are young” — and then she 
made so long a pause that Martha, to remind her of her half- 
finished sentence, dropped a curtsy, and said: 

“Yes, please, ma’am; two-and-twenty last third of October, 
please, ma’am.” 

“And perhaps, Martha, you may some time meet with a young 
man you like, and who likes you. I did say you were not to have 
followers; but if you meet with such a young man, and tell me, 
and I find he is respectable, I have no objection to his coming to 


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see you once a week. God forbid!” said she, in a low voice, 
“that I should grieve any young hearts.” She spoke as if she 
were providing for some distant contingency, and was rather 
startled when Martha made her ready eager answer. 

“Please, ma’am, there’s Jem Hearn, and he’s a joiner making 
three-and'-sixpence a day, and six foot one in his stocking feet, 
please, ma’am; and if you’ll ask about him to-morrow morning, 
every one will give him a character for steadiness; and he’ll be 
glad enough to come to-morrow night, I’ll be bound.” 

Though Miss Matty was startled, she submitted to Fate and 
Love. 


CHAPTER V 

OLD LETTERS 

I have often noticed that almost every one has his own individ- 
ual small economies — careful habits of saving fractions of pen- 
nies in some one peculiar direction — any disturbance of which 
annoys him more than spending shillings or pounds on some 
real extravagance. An old gentleman of my acquaintance, 
who took the intelligence of the failure of a Joint-Stock Bank, in 
which some of his money was invested, w T ith stoical mildness, 
worried his family all through a long summer’s day because one 
of them had torn (instead of cutting) out the written leaves of his 
now useless bank-book; of course, the corresponding pages at 
the other end came out as well, and this little unnecessary waste 
of paper (his private economy) chafed him more than all the 
loss of his money. Envelopes fretted his soul terribly when they 
first came in; the only way in which he could reconcile himself 
to such waste of his cherished article was by patiently turning 
inside out all that were sent to him, and so making them serve 
again. Even now, though tamed by age, I see him casting 
wistful glances at his daughters when they send a whole inside 
of a half-sheet of note-paper, with the three lines of acceptance 
to an invitation, written on only one of the sides. I am not 
above owning that I have this human weakness myself. String 
is my foible. My pockets get full of little hanks of it, picked up 


OLD LETTERS 


47 


and twisted together, ready for uses that never come. I am 
seriously annoyed if any one cuts the string of a parcel instead 
of patiently and faithfully undoing it fold by fold. How people 
can bring themselves to use India-rubber rings, which are a sort 
of deification of string, as lightly as they do, I cannot imagine. 
To me an India-rubber ring is a precious treasure. I have one 
which is not new — one that I picked up off the floor nearly six 
years ago. I have really tried to use it, but my heart failed me, 
and I could not commit the extravagance. 

Small pieces of butter grieve others. They cannot attend to 
conversation because of the annoyance occasioned by the habit 
which some people have of invariably taking more butter than 
they want. Have you not seen the anxious look (almost mes- 
meric) which such persons fix on the article ? They would feel 
it a relief if they might bury it out of their sight by popping it 
into their own mouths and swallowing it down; and they are 
really made happy if the person on whose plate it lies unused 
suddenly breaks off a piece of toast (which he does not want at 
all) and eats up his butter. They think that this is not waste. 

Now Miss Matty Jenkyns was chary of candles. We had 
many devices to use as few as possible. In the winter afternoons 
she would sit knitting for two or three hours — she could do this 
in the dark, or by fire-light — and when I asked if I might not 
ring for candles to finish stitching my wristbands, she told me 
to “ keep blind man’s holiday.” They were usually brought in 
with tea; but we only burnt one at a time. As we lived in con- 
stant preparation for a friend who might come in any evening 
(but who never did), it required some contrivance to keep our 
two candles of the same length, ready to be lighted, and to look 
as if we burnt two always. The candles took it in turns; and, 
whatever we might be talking about or doing, Miss Matty’s eyes 
were habitually fixed upon the candle, ready to jump up and 
extinguish it and to light the other before they had become too 
uneven in length to be restored to equality in the course of the 
evening. 

One night, I remember this candle economy particularly an- 
noyed me. I had been very much tired of my compulsory 
“ blind man’s holiday,” especially as Miss Matty had fallen 


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asleep, and I did not like to stir the fire and run the risk of awak- 
ening her; so I could not even sit on the rug, and scorch myself 
with sewing by fire-light, according to my usual custom. I 
fancied Miss Matty must be dreaming of her early life; for she 
spoke one or two words in her uneasy sleep bearing reference to 
persons who were dead long before. When Martha brought in 
the lighted candle and tea, Miss Matty started into wakefulness, 
with a strange, bewildered look around, as if we were not the 
people she expected to see about her. There was a little sad 
expression that shadowed her face as she recognized me; but 
immediately afterward she tried to give me her usual smile. 
All through tea-time her talk ran upon the days of her child- 
hood and youth. Perhaps this reminded her of the desirable- 
ness of looking over all the old family letters, and destroying such 
as ought not to be allowed to fall into the hands of strangers; 
for she had often spoken of the necessity of this task, but had 
always shrunk from it, with a timid dread of something painful. 
To-night, however, she rose up after tea and went for them — 
in the dark; for she piqued herself on the precise neatness of all 
her chamber arrangements, and used to look uneasily at me 
when I lighted a bed-candle to go to another room for anything. 
When she returned there was a faint, pleasant smell of Tonquin 
beans in the room. I had always noticed this scent about any 
of the things which had belonged to her mother; and many of 
the letters were addressed to her — yellow bundles of love-letters, 
sixty or seventy years old. 

Miss Matty undid the packet with a sigh; but she stifled it 
directly, as if it were hardly right to regret the flight of time, or of 
life either. We agreed to look them over separately, each taking 
a different letter out of the same bundle and describing its 
contents to the other before destroying it. I never knew what 
sad work the reading of old letters was before that evening, 
though I could hardly tell why. The letters were as happy as 
letters could be — at least those early letters were. There was 
in them a vivid and intense sense of the present time, which 
seemed so strong and full, as if it could never pass away, and as 
if the warm, living hearts that so expressed themselves could 
never die, and be as nothing to the sunny earth. I should have 


OLD LETTERS 


49 


felt less melancholy, I believe, if the letters had been more so. 
I saw the tears stealing down the well-worn furrows of Miss 
Matty’s cheeks, and her spectacles often wanted wiping. I 
trusted at last that she would light the other candle, for my own 
eyes were rather dim, and I wanted more light to see the pale, 
faded ink; but no, even through her tears, she saw and remem- 
bered her little economical ways. 

The earliest set of letters were two bundles tied together, and 
ticketed (in Miss Jenkyns’s handwriting) “ Letters interchanged 
between my ever-honored father and my dearly beloved mother, 
prior to their marriage, in July, 1774.” I should guess that the 
rector of Cranford was about twenty-seven years of age when he 
wrote those letters; and Miss Matty told me that her mother 
was just eighteen at the time of her wedding. With my idea of 
the rector, derived from a picture in the dining-parlor, stiff and 
stately, in a huge full-bottomed wig, with gown, cassock, and 
bands, and his hand upon a copy of the only sermon he ever 
published — it was strange to read these letters. They were full 
of eager, passionate ardor; short homely sentences, right fresh 
from the heart (very different from the grand Latinized, John- 
sonian style of the printed sermon, preached before some judge 
at assize time). His letters were a curious contrast to those of 
his girl-bride. She was evidently rather annoyed at his demands 
upon her for expressions of love, and could not quite understand 
what he meant by repeating the same thing over in so many 
different ways; but what she was quite clear about was a longing 
for a white “Paduasoy” — whatever that might be; and six or 
seven letters were principally occupied in asking her lover to use 
his influence with her parents (who evidently kept her in good 
order) to obtain this or that article of dress, more especially the 
white “Paduasoy.” He cared nothing how she was dressed; 
she was always lovely enough for him, as he took pains to assure 
her, when she begged him to express in his answers a predilection 
for particular pieces of finery, in order that she might show what 
he said to her parents. But at length he seemed to find out that 
she would not be married till she had a “trousseau” to her 
mind; and then he sent her a letter, which had evidently ac- 
companied a whole box full of finery, and in which he requested 


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that she might be dressed in everything her heart desired. This 
was the first letter, ticketed in a frail, delicate hand, “From my 
dearest John.” Shortly afterward they were married, I suppose, 
from the intermission in their correspondence. 

“We must burn them, I think,” said Miss Matty, looking 
doubtfully at me. “No one will care for them when I am gone.” 
And one by one she dropped them into the middle of the fire, 
watching each blaze up, die out, and rise away, in faint, white, 
ghostly semblance, up the chimney, before she gave another to 
the same fate. The room was light enough now ; but I, like her, 
was fascinated into watching the destruction of those letters, 
into which the honest warmth of a manly heart had been poured 
forth. 

The next letter, likewise docketed by Miss Jenkyns, was en- 
dorsed, “ Letter of pious congratulation and exhortation from my 
venerable grandfather to my beloved mother, on occasion of my 
own birth. Also some practical remarks on the desirability of 
keeping warm the extremities of infants, from my excellent 
grandmother.” 

The first part was, indeed, a severe and forcible picture of the 
responsibilities of mothers, and a warning against the evils that 
were in the world, and lying in ghastly wait for the little baby of 
two days old. His wife did not write, said the old gentleman, 
because he had forbidden it, she being indisposed with a sprained 
ankle, which (he said) quite incapacitated her from holding a 
pen. However, at the foot of the page was a small “t. o.>” and 
on turning it over, sure enough, there was a letter to “ my dear, 
dearest Molly,” begging her, when she left her room, whatever 
she did, to go up stairs before going down: and telling her to 
wrap her baby’s feet up in flannel, and keep it warm by the fire, 
although it was summer, for babies were so tender. 

It was pretty to see from the letters, which were evidently 
exchanged with some frequency between the young mother and 
the grandmother, how the girlish vanity was being weeded out of 
her heart by love for her baby. The white “ Paduasoy ” figured 
again in the letters, with almost as much vigor as before. In one, 
it was being made into a christening cloak for the baby. It 
decked it when it went with its parents to spend a day or two at 


OLD LETTERS 


51 


Arley Hall. It added to its charms when it was “the prettiest 
little baby that ever was seen. Dear mother, I wish you could 
see her! Without any parshality, I do think she will grow up a 
regular bewty!” I thought of Miss Jenkyns, gray, withered, 
and wrinkled, and I wondered if her mother had known her in 
the courts of heaven; and then I knew that she had, and that 
they stood there in angelic guise. 

There was a great gap before any of the rector’s letters ap- 
peared. And then his wife had changed her mode of endorse- 
ment. It was no longer from “My dearest John;” it was from 
“My honored Husband.” The letters were written on occasion 
of the publication of the same Sermon which was represented in 
the picture. The preaching before “My Lord Judge,” and the 
“publishing by request,” was evidently the culminating point — 
the event of his life. It had been necessary for him to go up to 
London to superintend it through the press. Many friends had 
to be called upon, and consulted, before he could decide on any 
printer fit for so onerous a task; and at length it was arranged 
that J. and J. Rivingtons were to have the honorable responsi- 
bility. The worthy rector seemed to be strung up by the occa- 
sion to a high literary pitch, for he could hardly write a letter 
to his wife without cropping out into Latin. I remember the 
end of one of his letters ran thus: “I shall ever hold the 
virtuous qualities of my Molly in remembrance, dum memor 
ipse mei, dum spiritus regit artus,” which, considering that the 
English of his correspondent was sometimes at fault in grammar, 
and often in spelling, might be taken as a proof of how much he 
“idealized his Molly;” and, as Miss Jenkyns used to say, “Peo- 
ple talk a great deal about idealizing nowadays, whatever that 
may mean.” But this was nothing to a fit of writing classical 
poetry which soon seized him, in which his Molly figured away 
as “Maria.” The letter containing the carmen was endorsed 
by her, “Hebrew verses sent me by my honored husband. I 
thowt to have had a letter about killing the pig, but must wait. 
Mem., to send the poetry to Sir Peter Arley, as my husband 
desires.” And in a post-scriptum note in his handwriting it 
was stated that the Ode had appeared in the Gentleman’s 
Magazine , December, 1782. 


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Her letters back to her husband (treasured as fondly by him as 
if they had been M. T. Ciceronis Epistolce) were more satisfac- 
tory to an absent husband and father than his could ever have 
been to her. She told him how Deborah sewed her seam very 
neatly every day, and read to her in the books he had set her; 
how she was a very “forrard,” good child, but would ask 
questions her mother could not answer, but how she did not let 
herself down by saying she did not know, but took to stirring the 
fire, or sending the “forrard” child on an errand. Matty was 
now the mother’s darling, and promised (like her sister at her 
age) to be a great beauty. I was reading this aloud to Miss 
Matty, who smiled and sighed a little at the hope, so fondly 
expressed, that “ little Matty might not be vain, even if she were 
a bewty.” 

“I had very pretty hair, my dear,” said Miss Matilda; “and 
not a bad mouth.” And I saw her soon afterward adjust her 
cap and draw herself up. 

But to return to Mrs. Jenkyns’s letters. She told her husband 
about the poor in the parish; what homely domestic medicines 
she had administered; what kitchen physic she had sent. She 
had evidently held his displeasure as a rod in pickle over the 
heads of all the ne’er-do-wells. She asked for his directions 
about the cows and pigs; and did not always obtain them, as I 
have shown before. 

The kind old grandmother was dead when a little boy was 
born, soon after the publication of the Sermon; but there was 
another letter of exhortation from the grandfather, more strin- 
gent and admonitory tban ever, now that there was a boy to be 
guarded from the snares of the world. He described all the 
various sins into which men might fall, until I wondered how 
any man ever came to a natural death. The gallows seemed as 
if it must have been the termination of the lives of most of the 
grandfather’s friends and acquaintance; and I was not sur- 
prised at the way in which he spoke of this life being “a vale of 
tears.” 

It seemed curious that I should never have heard of this 
brother before; but I concluded that he had died young, or else 
surely his name would have been alluded to by his sisters. 






OLD LETTERS 


53 


By and by we came to packets of Miss Jenkyns’s letters. 
These Miss Matty did regret to burn. She said all the others 
had been only interesting to those who loved the writers, and 
that it seemed as if it would have hurt her to allow them to fall 
into the hands of strangers, who had not known her dear mother, 5 
and how good she was, although she did not always spell quite 
in the modern fashion; but Deborah’s letters were so very 
superior! Any one might profit by reading them. It was a long 
time since she had read Mrs. Chapone, but she knew she used to 
think that Deborah could have said the same things quite as 10 
well; and as for Mrs. Carter! people thought a deal of her 
letters, just because she had written “Epictetus,” but she was 
quite sure Deborah would never have made use of such a com- 
mon expression as “I canna be fashed!” 

Miss Matty did grudge burning these letters, it was evident. 15 
She would not let them be carelessly passed over with any quiet 
reading, and skipping, to myself. She took them from me, and 
even lighted the second candle in order to read them aloud with 
a proper emphasis, and without stumbling over the big words. 

Oh dear! how I wanted facts instead of reflections, before those 20 
letters were concluded! They lasted us two nights; and I won’t 
deny that I made use of the time to think of many other things, 
and yet I was always at my post at the end of each sentence. 

The rector’s letters, and those of his wife and mother-in-lav/, 
had all been tolerably short and pithy, written in a straight hand, 25 
with the lines very close together. Sometimes the whole letter 
was contained on a mere scrap of paper. The paper was very 
yellow, and the ink very brown; some of the sheets were (as 
Miss Matty made me observe) the old original post, with the 
stamp in the corner representing a post-boy riding for life and 30 
twanging his horn. The letters of Mrs. Jenkyns and her mother 
were fastened with a great round red wafer; for it was before 
Miss Edgeworth’s “Patronage” had banished wafers from polite 
society. It was evident, from the tenor of what was said, that 
franks were in great request, and were even used as a means of 35 
paying debts by needy members of parliament. The rector 
sealed his epistles with an immense coat of arms, and showed 
by the care with which he had performed this ceremony that he 


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expected they should be cut open, not broken by any thoughtless 
or impatient hand. Now, Miss Jenkyns’s letters were of a later 
date in form and writing. She wrote on the square sheet which 
we have learned to call old-fashioned. Her hand was admirably 
calculated, together with her use of many-syllabled words, to 
fill up a sheet, and then came the pride and delight of crossing, 
Poor Miss Matty got sadly puzzled with this, for the words 
gathered size like snowballs, and toward the end of her letter 
Miss Jenkyns used to become quite sesquipedalian. In one to 
her father, slightly theological and controversial in its tone, she 
had spoken of Herod, Tetrarch of Idumea. Miss Matty read 
it “Herod Petrarch of Etruria,” and was just as well pleased 
as if she had been right. 

I can’t quite remember the date, but I think it was in 1805 that 
Miss Jenkyns wrote the longest series of letters — on occasion of 
her absence on a visit to some friends near Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 
These friends were intimate with the commandant of the garri- 
son there, and heard from him of all the preparations that were 
being made to repel the invasion of Buonaparte, which some 
people imagined might take place at the mouth of the Tyne. 
Miss Jenkyns was evidently very much alarmed; and the first 
part of her letters was often written in pretty intelligible English, 
conveying particulars of the preparations which were made in 
the family with whom she was residing against the dreaded event; 
the bundles of clothes that were packed up ready for a flight to 
Alston Moor (a wild hilly piece of ground between Northumber- 
land and Cumberland) ; the signal that was to be given for this 
flight, and for the simultaneous turning out of the volunteers 
under arms — which said signal was to consist (if I remember 
rightly) in ringing the church bells in a particular and ominous 
manner. One day, when Miss Jenkyns and her hosts were 
at a dinner-party in Newcastle, this warning summons was 
actually given (not a very wise proceeding, if there be any truth 
in the moral attached to the fable of the Boy and the Wolf; but 
so it was), and Miss Jenkyns, hardly recovered from her fright, 
wrote the next day to describe the sound, the breathless shock, 
the hurry and alarm; and then, taking breath, she added, “ How 
trivial, my dear father, do all our apprehensions of the last 


OLD LETTERS 


55 


evening appear, at the present moment, to calm and inquiring 
minds!” And here Miss Matty broke in with — 

“But, indeed, my dear, they were not at all trivial or trifling 
at the time. I know I used to wake up in the night many a time 
and think I heard the tramp of the French entering Cranford. 
Many people talked of hiding themselves in the salt mines — and 
meat would have kept capitally down there, only perhaps we 
should have been thirsty. And my father preached a whole set 
of sermons on the occasion; one set in the morning, all about 
David and Goliath, to spirit up the people to fighting with 
spades or bricks, if need were; and the other set in the after- 
noons, proving that Napoleon (that was another name for Bony, 
as we used to call him) was all the same as an Apollyon and 
Abaddon. I remember my father rather thought he should be 
asked to print this last set; but the parish had, perhaps, had 
enough of them with hearing.” 

Peter Marmaduke Arley Jenkyns (“poor Peter!” as Miss 
Matty began to call him) was at school at Shrewsbury by this 
time. The rector took up his pen, and rubbed up his Latin once 
more, to correspond with his boy. It was very clear that the lad’s 
were what are called show letters. They were of a highly mental 
description, giving an account of his studies, and his intellectual 
hopes of various kinds, with an occasional quotation from the 
classics; but, now and then, the animal nature broke out in 
such a little sentence as this, evidently written in a trembling 
hurry, after the letter had been inspected: “Mother dear, do 
send me a cake, and put plenty of citron in.” The “mother 
dear” probably answered her boy in the form of cakes and 
“goody,” for there were none of her letters among this set; but 
a whole collection of the rector’s, to whom the Latin in his boy’s 
letters was like a trumpet to the old war-horse. I do not know 
much about Latin, certainly, and it is, perhaps, an ornamental 
language, but not very useful, I think — at least to judge from the 
bits I remember out of the rector’s letters. One was, “You have 
not got that town in your map of Ireland ; but Bonus Bernardus 
non videt omnia, as the Proverbia say.” Presently it became very 
evident that “ poor Peter ” got himself into many scrapes. There 
were letters of stilted penitence to his father, for some wrong- 


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doing; and among them all was a badly written, badly sealed, 
badly directed, blotted note — “My dear, dear, dear, dearest 
mother, I will be a better boy; I will, indeed; but don’t, please, 
be ill for me; I am not worth it; but I will be good, darling 
5 mother.” 

Miss Matty could not speak for crying, after she had read this 
note. She gave it to me in silence, and then got up and took it to 
her sacred recesses in her own room, for fear, by any chance, it 
might get burnt. “Poor Peter!” she said; “he was always in 
10 scrapes; he was too easy. They led him wrong, and then left 
him in the lurch. But he was too fond of mischief. He could 
never resist a joke. Poor Peter!” 


CHAPTER VI 

POOR PETER 

Poor Peter’s career lay before him rather pleasantly mapped 
out by kind friends, but Bonus Bernardus non videt omnia , in this 
15 map too. He was to win honors at Shrewsbury School, and 
carry them thick to Cambridge, and after that, a living awaited 
him, the gift of his godfather, Sir Peter Arley. Poor Peter! his 
lot in life was very different to what his friends had hoped and 
planned. Miss Matty told me all about it, and I think it was a 
20 relief to her when she had done so. 

He was the darling of his mother, who seemed to dote on all 
her children, though she was, perhaps, a little afraid of Deborah’s 
superior acquirements. Deborah was the favorite of her father, 
and when Peter disappointed him, she became his pride. The 
25 sole honor Peter brought away from Shrewsbury was the reputa- 
tion of being the best good fellow that ever was, and of being the 
captain of the school in the art of practical joking. His father 
was disappointed, but set about remedying the matter in a manly 
way. He could not afford to send Peter to read w r ith any tutor, 
30 but he could read with him himself; and Miss Matty told me 
much of the awful preparations in the way of dictionaries and 
lexicons that were made in her father’s study the morning Peter 
began. 


POOR PETER 


57 


“My poor mother!” said she. “I remember how she used to 
stand in the hall, just near enough the study door, to catch the 
tone of my father’s voice. I could tell in a moment if all was 
going right, by her face. And it did go right for a long time.” 

“ What went wrong at last ?” said I. “ That tiresome Latin, 5 
I dare say.” 

“No! it was not the Latin. Peter was in high favor with my 
father, for he worked up well for him. But he seemed to think 
that the Cranford people might be joked about, and made fun of, 
and they did not like it; nobody does. He was always hoaxing 10 
them; ‘hoaxing’ is not a pretty word, my dear, and I hope you 
won’t tell your father I used it, for I should not like him to think 
that I was not choice in my language, after living with such a 
woman as Deborah. And be sure you never use it yourself. 

I don’t know how it slipped out of my mouth, except it was that 15 
I was thinking of poor Peter, and it was always his expression. 

But he was a very gentlemanly boy in many things. He was like 
dear Captain Brown in always being ready to help any old person 
or a child. Still, he did like joking and making fun; and he 
seemed to think the old ladies in Cranford would believe any- 20 
thing. There were many old ladies living here then; we are 
principally ladies now, I know, but we are not so old as the ladies 
used to be wheij I was a girl. I could laugh to think of some of 
Peter’s jokes. No, my dear, I won’t tell you of them, because 
they might not shock you as they ought to do, and they were very 25 
shocking. He even took in my father once, by dressing himself 
up as a lady that was passing through the town and wished to 
see the Rector of Cranford, ‘ who had published that admirable 
Assize Sermon.’ Peter said he was awfully frightened himself 
when he saw how my father took it all in, and even offered to 30 
copy out all his Napoleon Buonaparte sermons for her — him, I 
mean — no, her, for Peter was a lady then. He told me he was 
more terrified than he ever was before, all the time my father was 
speaking. He did not think my father would have believed him ; 
and yet if he had not, it would have been a sad thing for Peter. 35 
As it was, he was none so glad of it, for my father kept him hard 
at work copying out all those twelve Buonaparte sermons for the 
lady — that was for Peter himself, you know. He was the lady. 


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And once when he wanted to go fishing, Peter said, ‘ Confound 
the woman!’ — very bad language, my dear, but Peter was not 
always so guarded as he should have been; my father was so 
angry with him, it nearly frightened me out of my wits: and yet 
5 I could hardly keep from laughing at the little curtsies Peter 
kept making, quite slyly, whenever my father spoke of the lady’s 
excellent taste and sound discrimination.” 

“Did Miss Jenkyns know of these tricks?” said I. 

“Oh, no! Deborah would have been too much shocked. 
10 No, no one knew but me. I wish I had always known of Peter’s 
plans; but sometimes he did not tell me. He used to say the 
old ladies in the town wanted something to talk about; but I 
don’t think they did. They had the “ St. James’s Chronicle ” 
three times a week, just as we have now, and we have plenty to 
15 - say; and I remember the clacking noise there always was when 
some of the ladies got together. But, probably, schoolboys talk 
more than ladies. At last there was a terrible, sad thing hap- 
pened.” Miss Matty got up, went to the door, and opened it; 
no one was there. She rang the bell for Martha, and when 
20 Martha came, her mistress told her to go for eggs to a farm at 
the other end of the town. 

“I will lock the door after you, Martha. You are not afraid 
to go, are you ? ” 

“No, ma’am, not at all; Jem Hearn will be only too proud to 
25 go with me.” 

Miss Matty drew herself up, and as soon as we were alone, she 
wished that Martha had more maidenly reserve. 

“ We’ll put out the candle, my dear. We can talk just as well 
by firelight, you know. There! Well, you see, Deborah had 
30 gone from home for a fortnight or so; it was a very still, quiet 
day, I remember, overhead; and the lilacs were all in flower, so 
I suppose it was spring. My father had gone out to see some 
sick people in the parish; I recollect seeing him leave the house 
with his wig and shovel-hat and cane. What possessed our 
35 poor Peter I don’t know; he had the sweetest temper, and yet 
he always seemed to like to plague Deborah. She never laughed 
at his jokes, and thought him ungenteel, and not careful enough 
about improving his ipind; and that vexed him. 


POOR PETER 


59 


r Well! he went to her room, it seems, and dressed himself in 
her old gown, and shawl, and bonnet; just the things she used to 
wear in Cranford, and was known by everywhere; and he made 
the pillow into a little — you are sure you locked the door, my 
dear, for I should not like any one to hear — into — into — a 
little baby, with white long clothes. It was only, as he told me 
afterward, to make something to talk about in the town; he 
never thought of it as affecting Deborah. And he went and 
walked up and down in the Filbert walk — just half hidden by 
the rails, and half seen; and he cuddled his pillow, just like a 
baby, and talked to it all the nonsense people do. Oh dear! 
and my father came stepping stately up the street, as he always 
did; and what should he see but a little black crowd of people — 
I dare say as many as twenty — all peeping through his garden 
rails. So he thought, at first, they were only looking at a new 
rhododendron that was in full bloom, and that he was very 
proud of ; and he walked slower, that they might have more time 
to admire. And he wondered if he could make out a sermon 
from the occasion, and thought, perhaps, there was some relation 
between the rhododendrons and the lilies of the field. My poor 
father! When he came nearer, he began to wonder that they did 
not see him; but their heads were all so close together, peeping 
and peeping! My father was amongst them, meaning, he said, 
to ask them to walk into the garden with him, and admire the 
beautiful vegetable production, when — oh, my dear! I tremble 
to think of it — he looked through the rails himself, and saw — I 
don’t know what he thought he saw, but old Clare told me his 
face went quite gray-white with anger, and his eyes blazed out 
under his frowning black brows; and he spoke out — oh, so 
terribly! — and bade them all stop where they were — not one of 
them to go, not one to stir a step; and, swift as light, he was in at 
the garden door, and down the Filbert walk, and seized hold of 
poor Peter, and tore his clothes off his back — bonnet, shawl, 
gown, and all — and threw the pillow among the people over the 
railings: and then he was very, very angry indeed, and before all 
the people he lifted up his cane and flogged Peter! 

“ My dear, that boy’s trick, on that sunny day, when all seemed 
going straight and well, broke my mother’s heart, and changed 


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my father for life. It did, indeed. Old Clare said, Peter looked 
as white as my father; and stood as still as a statue to be flogged; 
and my father struck hard! When my father stopped to take 
breath, Peter said, ‘ Have you done enough, sir ? ’ quite hoarsely, 
and still standing quite quiet. I don’t know what my father 
said — or if he said anything. But old Clare said, Peter turned 
to where the people outside the railing were, and made them a 
low bow, as grand and as grave as any gentleman; and then 
walked slowly into the house. I was in the store-room helping 
my mother to make cowslip wine. I cannot abide the wine now, 
nor the scent of the flowers; they turn me sick and faint, as they 
did that day, when Peter came in, looking as haughty as any 
man — indeed, looking like a man, not like a boy. ‘ Mother!’ he 
said, ‘ I am come to say, God bless you forever.’ I saw his lips 
quiver as he spoke; and I think he durst not say anything more 
loving, for the purpose that was in his heart. She looked at 
him rather frightened, and wondering, and asked him what was 
to do. He did not smile or speak, but put his arms round her 
and kissed her as if he did not know how to leave off ; and before 
she could speak again, he was gone. We talked it over, and 
could not understand it, and she bade me go and seek my father, 
and ask what it was all about. I found him walking up and 
down, looking very highly displeased. 

‘“Tell your mother I have flogged Peter, and that he richly 
deserved it.’ 

“ I durst not ask any more questions. When I told my mother, 
she sat down, quite faint, for a minute. I remember, a few days 
after, I saw the poor, withered cowslip flowers thrown out to the 
leaf heap, to decay and die there. There was no making of 
cowslip wine that year at the rectory — nor, indeed, ever after. 

“ Presently my mother went to my father. I know I thought 
of Queen Esther and King Ahasuerus; for my mother was very 
pretty and delicate looking, and my father looked as terrible as 
King Ahasuerus. Some time after they came out together: and 
then my mother told me what had happened, and that she was 
going up to Peter’s room at my father’s desire — though she was 
not to tell Peter this — to talk the matter over with him. But no 
Peter was there. We looked over the house ; no Peter was there ! 


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Even my father, who had not liked to join in the search at first, 
helped us before long. The rectory was a very old house — 
steps up into a room, steps down into a room, all through. At 
first, my mother went calling low and soft, as if to reassure the 
poor boy, ‘ Peter! Peter, dear! it’s only me’; but, by and by, as 
the servants came back from the errands my father had sent 
them, in different directions, to find where Peter was — as we 
found he was not in the garden, nor the hayloft, nor anywhere 
about — my mother’s cry grew louder and wilder, ‘ Peter 1 Peter, 
my darling! where are you?’ for then she felt and understood 
that that long kiss meant some sad kind of ‘good-by.’ The 
afternoon went on — my mother never resting, but seeking again 
and again in every possible place that had been looked into 
twenty times before, nay, that she had looked into over and over 
again herself. My father sat with his head in his hands, not 
speaking except when his messengers came in, bringing no tid- 
ings; then he lifted up his face, so strong and sad, and told them 
to go again in some new direction. My mother kept passing 
from room to room, in and out of the house, moving noiselessly, 
but never ceasing. Neither she nor my father durst leave the 
house, which was the meeting-place for all the messengers. At 
last (and it was nearly dark) my father rose up. He took hold 
of my mother’s arm as she came with wild, sad pace through one 
door, and quickly toward another. She started at the touch of 
his hand, for she had forgotten all in the world but Peter. 

“‘Molly!’ said he, ‘I did not think all this would happen.’ 
He looked into her face for comfort — her poor face, all wild and 
white; for neither she nor my father had dared to acknowledge — 
much less act upon — the terror that was in their hearts, lest Peter 
should have made away with himself. My father saw no con- 
scious look in his wife’s hot, dreary eyes, and he missed the 
sympathy that she had always been ready to give him — strong 
man as he was, and at the dumb despair in her face his tears 
began to flow. But when she saw this, a gentle sorrow came 
over her countenance, and she said, ‘Dearest John! don’t cry; 
come with me, and we’ll find him,’ almost' as cheerfully as if she 
knew where he was. And she took my father’s great hand in 
her little soft one and led him along, the tears dropping as he 


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walked on that same unceasing, weary walk, from room to room, 
through house and garden. 

“ Oh, how I wished for Deborah ! I had no time for crying, for 
now all seemed to depend* on me. I wrote for Deborah to come 
5 home. I sent a message privately to that same Mr. Holbrook’s 
house — poor Mr. Holbrook! — you know who I mean. I don’t 
mean I sent a message to him, but I sent one that I could trust to 
know if Peter was at his house. For at one time Mr. Holbrook 
was an occasional visitor at the rectory — you know he was Miss 
10 Pole’s cousin — and he had been very kind to Peter, and taught 
him how to fish — he was very kind to everybody, and I thought 
Peter might have gone off there. But Mr. Holbrook was frqm 
home, and Peter had never been seen. It was night now; but 
the doors were all wide open, and my father and mother walked 
15 on and on; it was more than an hour since he had joined her, 
and I don’t believe they had ever spoken all that time. I was 
getting the parlor fire lighted, and one of the servants was pre- 
paring tea, for I wanted them to have something to eat and drink 
and warm them, when old Clare asked to speak to me. 

20 “‘I have borrowed the nets from the weir, Miss Matty. Shall 

we drag the ponds to-night, or wait for the morning ? ’ 

“I remember staring in his face to gather his meaning; and 
when I did, I laughed out loud. The horror of that new thought 
— our bright, darling Peter, cold, and stark, and dead! I re- 
25 member the ring of my own laugh now. 

‘‘The next day Deborah was at home before I was myself 
again. She would not have been so weak as to give way as I 
had done; but my screams (my horrible laughter had ended in 
crying) had roused my sweet dear mother, whose poor wandering 
30 wits were called back and collected as soon as a child needed her 
care. She and Deborah sat by my bedside; I knew by the looks 
of each that there had been no news of Peter — no awful, ghastly 
news, which was what I most had dreaded in my dull state be- 
tween sleeping and waking. 

35 “The same result of all the searching had brought something 
of the same relief to my mother, to whom, I am sure, the thought 
that Peter might even then be hanging dead in some of the 
familiar home places had caused that never-ending walk of yes- 


POOR PETER 


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terday. Her soft eyes never were the same again after that; 
they had always a restless, craving look, as if seeking for what 
they could not find. Oh! it was an awful time; coming down 
like a thunderbolt on the still sunny , day when the lilacs were 
all in bloom.” 

“Where was Mr. Peter?” said I. 

“He had made his way to Liverpool; and there was war then; 
and some of the king’s ships lay off the mouth of the Mersey; 
and they were only too glad to have a fine likely boy such as 
him (five foot nine he was) come to offer himself. The captain 
wrote to my father, and Peter wrote to my mother. Stay ! those 
letters will be somewhere here.” 

We lighted the candle, and found the captain’s letter and 
Peter’s too. And we also found a little simple begging letter 
from Mrs. Jenkyns to Peter, addressed to him at the house of an 
old school-fellow, whither she fancied he might have gone. 
They had returned it unopened; and unopened it had remained 
ever since, having been inadvertently put by among the other 
letters of that time. This is it: 

My Dearest Peter, 

You did not think we should be so sorry as we are, I know, 
or you would never have gone away. You are too good. 
Yohr father sits and sighs till my heart aches to hear him. 
He cannot hold up his head for grief; and yet he only did what 
he thought was right. Perhaps he has been too severe, and 
perhaps I have not been kind enough; but God knows how we 
love you, my dear only boy. Don looks so sorry you are gone. 
Come back, and make us happy, who love you so much. I 
know you will come back. 

But Peter did not come back. That spring day was the last 
time he ever saw his mother’s face. The writer of the letter — 
the last — the only person who had ever seen what was written 
in it, was dead long ago; and I, a stranger, not born at the time 
when this occurrence took place, was the one to open it. 

The captain’s letter summoned the father and mother to 
Liverpool instantly, if they wished to see their boy; and, by 
some of the wild chances of life, the captain’s letter had been 
detained somewhere, somehow. 


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Miss Matty went on, “And it was race-time, and all the post- 
horses at Cranford were gone to the races; but my father and 
mother set off in our own gig — and oh! my dear, they were too 
late — the ship was gone! And now read Peter’s letter to my 
mother!” 

It was full of love, and sorrow, and pride in his new profes- 
sion, and a sore sense of his disgrace in the eyes of the people at 
Cranford; but ending with a passionate entreaty that she would 
come and see him before he left the Mersey: “Mother! we may 
go into battle. I hope we shall, and lick those French; but I 
must see you again before that time.” 

“And she was too late,” said Miss Matty; “too late!” 

We sat in silence, pondering on the full meaning of those sad, 
sad words. At length I asked Miss Matty to tell me how her 
mother bore it. 

“ Oh! ” she said, “ she was patience itself. She had never been 
strong, and this weakened her terribly. My father used to sit 
looking at her, — far more sad than she was. He seemed as if he 
could look at nothing else when she was by; and he was so 
humble — so very gentle now. He would, perhaps, speak in his 
old way — laying down the law, as it were — and then, in a minute 
or two, he would come round and put his hand on our shoulders, 
and ask us in a low voice if he had said anything to hurt us. I 
did not wonder at his speaking so to Deborah, for she was so 
clever; but I could not bear to hear him talking so to me. 

“ But, you see, he saw what we did not — that it was killing my 
mother. Yes! killing her (put out the candle, my dear; I can 
talk better in the dark), for she was but a frail woman, and ill- 
fitted to stand the fright and shock she had gone through; and 
she would smile at him and comfort him, not in words, but in 
her looks and tones, which were always cheerful when he was 
there. And she would speak of how she thought Peter stood a 
good chance of being admiral very soon — he was so brave and 
clever; and how she thought of seeing him in his navy uniform, 
and what sort of hats admirals wore; and how much more fit he 
was to be a sailor than a clergyman; and all in that way, just to 
make my father think she was quite glad of what came of that 
unlucky morning’s work, and the flogging which was always in 


POOR PETER 


65 


his mind, as we all knew. But oh, my dear! the bitter, bitter 
crying she had when she was alone; and at last, as she grew 
weaker, she could not keep her tears in when Deborah or me was 
by, and would give us message after message for Peter (his ship 
had gone to the Mediterranean, or somewhere down there, and 
then he was ordered off to India, and there was no overland 
route then) ; but she still said that no one knew where their death 
lay in wait, and that we were not to think hers was near. We 
did not think it, but we knew it, as we saw her fading away. 

“Well, my dear, it’s very foolish of me, I know, when in all 
likelihood I am so near seeing her again. 

“And only think, love! the very day after her death — for she 
did not live quite a twelvemonth after Peter went away — the 
very day after — came a parcel for her from India — from her poor 
boy. It was a large, soft, white India shawl, with just a little 
narrow border all round; just what my mother would have 
liked. 

“ We thought it might rouse my father, for he had sat with her 
hand in his all night long; so Deborah took it in to him, and 
Peter’s letter to her, and all. At first, he took no notice; and we 
tried to make a kind of light careless talk about the shawl, 
opening it out and admiring it. Then, suddenly, he got up, 
and spoke: ‘She shall be buried in it,’ he said; ‘Peter shall 
have that comfort; and she would have liked it.’ 

“Well, perhaps it was not reasonable, but what could we do 
or say? One gives people in grief their own way. He took it 
up and felt it: ‘ It is just such a shawl as she wished for when she 
was married, and her mother did not give it her. I did not know 
of it till after, or she should have had it — she should; but she 
shall have it now.’ 

“My mother looked so lovely in her death! She was always 
pretty, and now she looked fair, and waxen, and young — 
younger than Deborah, as she stood trembling and shivering by 
her. We decked her in the long soft folds; she lay smiling, as if 
pleased; and people came — all Cranford came — to beg to see 
her, for they had loved her dearly, as well they might; and the 
countrywomen brought posies; old Clare’s wife brought some 
white violets, and begged they might lie on her breast. 


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“ Deborah said to me, the day of my mother’s funeral, that if 
she had a hundred offers she never would marry and leave my 
father. It was not very likely she would have so many — I don’t ! 
know that she had one; but it was not less to her credit to say 
so. She was such a daughter to my father as I think there never 
was before or since. His eyes failed him, and she read book 
after book, and wrote, and copied, and was always at his ser- 
vice in any parish business. She could do many more things 
than my poor mother could; she even once wrote a letter to the 
bishop for my father. But he missed my mother sorely; the 
whole parish noticed it. Not that he was less active; I think he 
was more so, and more patient in helping every one. I did all 
I could to set Deborah at liberty to be with him; for I knew I 
was good for little, and that my best work in the world was to 
do odd jobs quietly, and set others at liberty. But my father 
was a changed man.” 

“Did Mr. Peter ever come home?” 

“Yes, once. He came home a lieutenant; he did not get to be 
admiral. And he and my father were such friends! My father 
took him into every house in the parish, he was so proud of him. 
He never walked out without Peter’s arm to lean upon. Deb- 
orah used to smile (I don’t think we ever laughed again after 
my mother’s death), and say she was quite put in a corner. Not 
but what my father always wanted her when there was letter- 
writing or reading to be done, or anything to be settled.” 

“And then?” said I, after a pause. 

“Then Peter went to sea again; and, by and by, my father died, 
blessing us both, and thanking Deborah for all she had been 
to him; and, of course, our circumstances were changed; and, 
instead of living at the rectory, and keeping three maids and a 
man, we had to come to this small house, and be content with a 
servant-of-all-work; but, as Deborah used to say, we have always 
lived genteelly, even if circumstances have compelled us to sim- 
plicity. Poor Deborah!” 

“And Mr. Peter?” asked I. 

“ Oh, there was some great war in India — I forget what they 
call it — and we have never heard of Peter since then. I believe 
he is dead myself; and it sometimes fidgets me that we have 


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67 


never put on mourning for him. And then again, when I sit by 
myself, and all the house is still, I think I hear his step coming 
up the street, and my heart begins to flutter and beat; but the 
sound always goes past — and Peter never comes. 

“That’s Martha back? No! /’ll go, my dear; I can always 
find my way in the dark, you know. And a blow of fresh air at 
the door will do my head good, and it’s rather got a trick of 
aching.” 

So she pattered off. I had lighted the candle, to give the room 
a cheerful appearance against her return. 

“Was it Martha?” asked I. 

“Yes. And I am rather uncomfortable, for I heard such a 
strange noise just as I was opening the door.” 

“Where?” I asked, for her eyes were round with affright. 

“In the street — just outside — it sounded like ” 

“Talking?” I put in, as she hesitated a little. 

“No! kissing ” 


CHAPTER VII 

VISITING 

One morning, as Miss Matty and I sat at our work — it was 
before twelve o’clock, and Miss Matty had not changed the 
cap with yellow ribbons that had been Miss Jenkyns’s best, and 
which Miss Matty was now wearing out in private, putting on 
the one made in imitation of Mrs. Jamieson’s at all times when 
she expected to be seen — Martha came up, and asked if Miss 
Betty Barker might speak to her mistress. Miss Matty assented, 
and quickly disappeared to change the yellow ribbons, while 
Miss Barker came up-stairs; but, as she had forgotten her spec- 
tacles, and was rather flurried by the unusual time of the visit, 
I was not surprised to see her return with one cap on the top of 
the other. She was quite unconscious of it herself, and looked 
at us with bland satisfaction. Nor do I think Miss Barker per- 
ceived it; for, putting aside the little circumstance that she was 
not so young as she had been, she was very much absorbed in 


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her errand, which she delivered herself of with an oppressive | 
modesty that found vent in endless apologies. 

Miss Betty Barker was the daughter of the old clerk at Cran- 
ford who had officiated in Mr. Jenkyns’s time. She and her j 
5 sister had had pretty good situations as ladies’ maids, and had 
saved money enough to set up a milliner’s shop, which had been 
patronized by the ladies in the neighborhood. Lady Arley, for 
instance, would occasionally give Miss Barkers the pattern of 
an old cap of hers, which they immediately copied and circulated 
10 among the elite of Cranford. I say the elite , for Miss Barkers 
had caught the trick of the place, and piqued themselves upon 
their “aristocratic connection.” They would not sell their caps 
and ribbons to any one without a pedigree. Many a farmer’s 
wife or daughter turned away huffed from Miss Barkers’ select 
15 millinery, and went rather to the universal shop, where the j 
profits of brown soap and moist sugar enabled the proprietor 
to go straight to (Paris, he said, until he found his customers too 
patriotic and John Bullish to wear what the Mounseers wore) 
London, where, as he often told his customers, Queen Adelaide 
20 had appeared, only the very week before, in a cap exactly like the 
one he showed them, trimmed with yellow and blue ribbons, 'and 
had been complimented by King William on the becoming 
nature of her head-dress. 

Miss Barkers, who confined themselves to truth, and did not 
25 approve of miscellaneous customers, throve notwithstanding. 
They were self-denying, good people. Many a time have I seen 
the eldest of them (she that had been maid to Mrs. Jamieson) 
carrying out some delicate mess to a poor person. They only 
aped their betters in having “nothing to do” with the class im- 
30 mediately below theirs. And when Miss Barker died, their 
profits and income were found to be such that Miss Betty was 
justified in shutting up shop and retiring from business. She 
also (as I think I have before said) set up her cow; a mark of 
respectability in Cranford almost as decided as setting up a gig 
35 is among some people. She dressed finer than any lady in Cran- 
ford; and we did not wonder at it; for it was understood that 
she was wearing out all the bonnets and caps and outrageous 
ribbons which had once formed her stock-in-trade. It was 


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five or six years since she had given up shop, so in any other 
place than Cranford her dress might have been considered 
passee. 

And now Miss Betty Barker had called to invite Miss Matty 
to tea at her house on the following Tuesday. She gave me also 
an impromptu invitation, as I happened to be a visitor — though 
I could see she had a little fear lest, since my father had gone to 
live in Drumble, he might have engaged in that “ horrid cotton 
trade,” and so dragged his family down out of “aristocratic 
society.” She prefaced this invitation with so many apologies 
that she quite excited my curiosity. “Her presumption” was to 
be excused. What had she been doing? She seemed so over- 
powered by it, I could only think that she had been writing to 
Queen Adelaide to ask for a receipt for washing lace; but the 
act which she so characterized was only an invitation she had 
carried to her sister’s former mistress, Mrs. Jamieson. “Her 
former occupation considered, could Miss Matty excuse the 
liberty?” Ah! thought I, she has found out that double cap, 
and is going to rectify Miss Matty’s head-dress. No! it was 
simply to extend her invitation to Miss Matty and to me. Miss 
Matty bowed acceptance; and I wondered that, in the graceful 
action, she did not feel the unusual weight and extraordinary 
height of her head-dress. But I do not think she did, for she 
recovered her balance, and went on talking to Miss Betty in a 
kind, condescending manner, very different from the fidgety 
way she would have had if she had suspected how singular her 
appearance was. 

“Mrs. Jamieson is coming, I think you said?” asked Miss 
Matty. 

“Yes. Mrs. Jamieson most kindly and condescendingly said 
she would be happy to come. One little stipulation she made, 
that she should bring Carlo. I told her that if I had a weakness, 
it was for dogs.” 

“And Miss Pole?” questioned Miss Matty, who was thinking 
of her pool at Preference, in which Carlo would not be available 
as a partner. 

“ I am going to ask Miss Pole. Of course, I could not think 
of asking her until I had asked you, madam — the rector’s daugh- 


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70 CRANFORD 

ter, madam. Believe me, I do not forget the situation my father 
held under yours.” 

“And Mrs. Forrester, of course?” 

“And Mrs. Forrester. I thought, in fact, of going to her be- 
5 fore I went to Miss Pole. Although her circumstances are 
changed, madam, she was born a Tyrrell, and we can never 
forget her alliance to the Bigges, of Bigelow Hall.” 

Miss Matty cared much more for the little circumstance of 
her being a very good card-player. 

10 “Mrs. Fitz-Adam — I suppose ” 

“No, madam. I must draw a line somewhere. Mrs. Jamie- 
son would not, I think, like to meet Mrs. Fitz-Adam. I have 
the greatest respect for Mrs. Fitz-Adam — but I cannot think her 
fit society for such ladies as Mrs. Jamieson and Miss Matilda 
15 Jenkyns.” 

Miss Betty Barker bowed low to Miss Matty, and pursed up 
her mouth. She looked at me with sidelong dignity, as much as 
to say, although a retired milliner, she was no democrat, and 
understood the difference of ranks. 

20 “May I beg you to come as near half-past six, to my little 
dwelling, as possible, Miss Matilda? Mrs. Jamieson dines at 
five, but has kindly promised not to delay her visit beyond that 
time — half-past six.” And with a swimming courtesy Miss Betty 
Barker took her leave. 

25 My prophetic soul foretold a visit that afternoon from Miss 
Pole, who usually came to call on Miss Matilda after any event 
■ — or indeed in sight of any event — to talk it over with her. 

“Miss Betty told me it was to be a choice and select few,” 
said Miss Pole, as she and Miss Matty compared notes. 

30 “Yes, so she said. Not even Mrs. Fitz-Adam.” 

Now Mrs. Fitz-Adam was the widowed sister of the Cranford 
surgeon, whom I have named before. Their parents were re- 
spectable farmers, content with their station. The name of these 
good people was Hoggins. Mr. Hoggins was the Cranford doc- 
35 tor now; we disliked the name and considered it coarse; but, as 
Miss Jenkyns said, if he changed it to Piggins it would not be 
much better. We had hoped to discover a relationship between 
him and that Marchioness of Exeter whose name was Molly 


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Hoggins; but the man, careless of his own interests, utterly ig- 
nored and denied any such relationship, although, as dear Miss 
Jenkyns had said, he had a sister called Mary, and the same 
Christian names were very apt to run in families. 

Soon after Miss Mary Hoggins married Mr. Fitz-Adam she 
disappeared from the neighborhood for many years. She did 
not move in a sphere in Cranford society sufficiently high to 
make any of us care to know what Mr. Fitz-Adam was. He 
died and was gathered to his fathers without our ever having 
thought about him at all. And then Mrs. Fitz-Adam reappeared 
in Cranford (“as bold as a lion,” Miss Pole said), a well-to-do 
widow, dressed in rustling black silk, so soon after her husband’s 
death that poor Miss Jenkyns was justified in the remark she 
made, that “bombazine would have shown a deeper sense of 
her loss.” 

I remember the convocation of ladies who assembled to de- 
cide whether or not Mrs. Fitz-Adam should be called upon by 
the old blue-blooded ‘inhabitants of Cranford. She had taken a 
large rambling house, which had been usually considered to 
confer a patent of gentility upon its tenant, because, once upon 
a time, seventy or eighty years before, the spinster daughter of 
an earl had resided in it. I am not sure if the inhabiting of this 
house was not also believed to convey some unusual power of 
intellect; for the earl’s daughter, Lady Jane, had a sister, Lady 
Anne, who had married a general officer in the time of the Amer- 
ican war, and this general officer had written one or two com- 
edies, which were still acted on the London boards, and which, 
when we saw them advertised, made us all draw up, and feel 
that Drury Lane was paying a very pretty compliment to Cran- 
ford. Still, it was not at all a settled thing that Mrs. Fitz-Adam 
was to be visited, when dear Miss Jenkyns died; and, with her, 
something of the clear knowledge of the strict code of gentility 
went out too. As Miss Pole observed, “As most of the ladies of 
good family in Cranford were elderly spinsters, or widows with- 
out children, if we did not relax a little, and become less exclu- 
sive, by and by we should have no society at all.” 

Mrs. Forrester continued on the same side: 

“She had always understood that Fitz meant something 


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aristocratic; there was Fitz-Roy — she thought that some of the 
King’s children had been called Fitz-Roy; and there was Fitz- 
Clarence now — they were the children of dear good King Wil- 
liam the Fourth. Fitz-Adam! — it was a pretty name, and she 
thought it very probably meant ‘Child of Adam.’ No one, who 
had not some good blood in their veins, would dare to be called 
Fitz; there was a deal in a name — she had had a cousin who 
spelled his name with two little ffs — ffoulkes — and he always 
looked down upon capital letters, and said they belonged to 
lately invented families. She had been afraid he would die a 
bachelor, he was so very choice. When he met with a Mrs. 
ffaringdon, at a watering-place, he took to her immediately; 
and a very pretty genteel woman she was — a widow, with a very 
good fortune; and ‘my cousin,’ Mr. ffoulkes, married her; and it 
was all owing to her two little ffs.” 

Mrs. Fitz-Adam did not stand a chance of meeting with a Mr. 
Fitz-anything in Cranford, so that could not have been her 
motive for settling there. Miss Matty thought it might have 
been the hope of being admitted into the society of the place, 
which would certainly be a very agreeable rise for ci-devant Miss 
Hoggins; and if this had been her hope it would be cruel to dis- 
appoint her. 

So everybody called upon Mrs. Fitz-Adam — everybody but 
Mrs. Jamieson, who used to show how honorable she was by 
never seeing Mrs. Fitz-Adam when they met at the Cranford 
parties. There would be only eight or ten ladies in the room, 
and Mrs. Fitz-Adam was the largest of all, and she invariably 
used to stand up when Mrs. Jamieson came in, and curtsy very 
low to her whenever she turned in her direction — so low, in fact, 
that I think Mrs. Jamieson must have looked at the wall above 
her, for she never moved a muscle of her face, no more than if 
she had not seen her. Still Mrs. Fitz-Adam persevered. 

The spring evenings were getting bright and long when three 
or four ladies in calashes met at Miss Barker’s door. Do you 
know what a calash is ? It is a covering worn over caps, not un- 
like the heads fastened on old-fashioned gigs; but sometimes it 
is not quite so large. This kind of head-gear always made an 
awful impression on the children in Cranford; and now two or 


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three left off their play in the quiet sunny little street, and gath- 
ered in wondering silence round Miss Pole, Miss Matty, and 
myself. We were silent too, so that we could hear loud, sup- 
pressed whispers inside Miss Barker’s house: “Wait, Peggy! 
wait till I’ve run up-stairs and washed my hands. When I cough, 
open the door; I’ll not be a minute.” 

And, true enough, it was not a minute before we heard a noise, 
between a sneeze and a crow; on which the door flew open. 
Behind it stood a round-eyed maiden, all aghast at the honorable 
company of calashes, who marched in without a word. She 
recovered presence of mind enough to usher us into a small room 
which had been the shop, but was now converted into a tem- 
porary dressing-room. There we unpinned and shook our- 
selves, and arranged our features before the glass into a sweet 
and gracious company-face; and then, bowing backward with 
“After you, ma’am,” we allowed Mrs. Forrester to take pre- 
cedence up the narrow staircase that led to Miss Barker’s 
drawing-room. There she sat, as stately and composed as 
though we had never heard that odd-sounding cough, from 
which her throat must have been even then sore and rough. 
Kind, gentle, shabbily dressed Mrs. Forrester was immediately 
conducted to the second place of honor — a seat arranged some- 
thing like Prince Albert’s near the Queen’s — good, but not so 
good. The place of pre-eminence was, of course, reserved for 
the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson, who presently came panting up 
the stairs — Carlo rushing round her on her progress, as if he 
meant to trip her up. 

And now Miss Betty Barker was a proud and happy woman ! 
She stirred the fire, and shut the door, and sat as near to it as 
she could, quite on the edge of her chair. When Peggy came in, 
tottering under the weight of the tea-tray, I noticed that Miss 
Barker was sadly afraid lest Peggy should not keep her distance 
sufficiently. She and her mistress were on very familiar terms 
in their every-day intercourse, and Peggy wanted now to make 
several little confidences to her, which Miss Barker was on thorns 
to hear, but which she thought it her duty, as a lady, to repress. 
So she turned away from all Peggy’s asides and signs; but she 
made one or two very mal-apropos answers to what was said; 


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and at last, seized with a bright idea, she exclaimed, “Poor, 
sweet Carlo! I’m forgetting him. Come down-stairs with me, 
poor ittie doggie, and it shall have its tea, it shall!” 

In a few minutes she returned, bland and benignant as before; 

5 but I thought she had forgotten to give the “poor ittie doggie” 
anything to eat, judging by the avidity with which he swallowed 
down chance pieces of cake. The tea-tray was abundantly 
loaded — I was pleased to see it, I was so hungry; but I was 
afraid the ladies present might think it vulgarly heaped up, as I 
10 know they would have done at their own houses; but somehow 
the heaps disappeared here. I saw Mrs. Jamieson eating seed- 
cake, slowly and considerately, as she did everything; and I was 
rather surprised, for I knew she had told us, on the occasion of 
her last party, that she never had it in her house, it reminded 
15 her so much of scented soap. She always gave us Savoy bis- 
cuits. However, Mrs. Jamieson was kindly indulgent to Miss 
Barker’s want of knowledge of the customs of high life; and, to 
spare her feelings, ate three large pieces of seed-cake, with a 
placid, ruminating expression of countenance, not unlike a cow’s. 
20 After tea there was some little demur and difficulty. We were 
six in number; four could play at Preference, and for the other 
two there was Cribbage. But all, except myself (I was rather 
afraid of the Cranford ladies at cards, for it was the most earnest 
and serious business they ever engaged in), were anxious to be of 
25 the “ pool.” Even Miss Barker, while declaring she did not know 
Spadille from Manille, was evidently hankering to take a hand. 
The dilemma was soon put an end to by a singular kind of noise. 
If a Baron’s daughter-in-law could ever be supposed to snore, 
I should have said Mrs. Jamieson did so then; for, overcome by 
30 the heat of the room, and inclined to doze by nature, the tempta- 
tion of that very comfortable arm-chair had been too much for 
her, and Mrs. Jamieson was nodding. Once or twice she opened 
her eyes with an effort, and calmly but unconsciously smiled 
upon us; but, by and by, even her benevolence was not equal to 
35 this exertion, and she was sound asleep. 

“It is very gratifying to me,” whispered Miss Barker at the 
card-table to her three opponents, whom, notwithstanding her 
ignorance of the game, she was “basting” most unmercifully — 


VISITING 


75 


“very gratifying indeed, to see how completely Mrs. Jamieson 
feels at home in my poor little dwelling; she could not have paid 
me a greater compliment.” 

Miss Barker provided me with some literature in the shape of 
three or four handsomely bound fashion-books ten or twelve 
years old, observing, as she put a little table and a candle for my 
especial benefit, that she knew young people liked to look at 
pictures. Carlo lay and snorted, and started at his mistress’s 
feet. He, too, was quite at home. 

The card-table was an animated scene to watch; four ladies’ 
heads, with niddle-noddling caps, all nearly meeting over the 
middle of the -table in their eagerness to whisper quick enough 
and loud enough: and every now and then came Miss Barker’s 
“Hush, ladies! if you please, hush! Mrs. Jamieson is asleep.” 

It was very difficult to steer clear between Mrs. Forrester’s 
deafness and Mrs. Jamieson’s sleepiness. But Miss Barker 
managed her arduous task well. She repeated the whisper to 
Mrs. Forrester, distorting her face considerably, in order to 
show, by the motions of her lips, what was said; and then she 
smiled kindly all round at us, and murmured to herself, “Very 
gratifying indeed; I wish my poor sister had been alive to see 
this day.” 

Presently the door was thrown wide open; Carlo started to his 
feet, with a loud snapping bark, and Mrs. Jamieson awoke: or, 
perhaps, she had not been asleep — as she said almost directly, 
the room had been so light she had been glad to keep her eyes 
shut, but had been listening with great interest to all our amusing 
and agreeable conversation. Peggy came in once more, red 
with importance. Another tray! “Oh, gentility!” thought I, 
“can you endure this last shock?” For Miss Barker had or- 
dered (nay, I doubt not, prepared, although she did say, “Why! 
Peggy, what have you brought us?” and looked pleasantly sur- 
prised at the unexpected pleasure) all sorts of good things for 
supper — scalloped oysters, potted lobsters, jelly, a dish called 
“little Cupids” (which was in great favor with the Cranford 
ladies, although too expensive to be given, except on solemn and 
state occasions — macaroons sopped in brandy, I should have 
called it, if I had not known its more refined and classical name). 


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In short, we were evidently to be feasted with all that was sweet- 
est and best; and we thought it better to submit graciously, even 
at the cost of our gentility — which never ate suppers in general, 
but which, like most non-supper-eaters, was particularly hungry 
5 on all special occasions. 

Miss Barker, in her former sphere, had, I dare say, been made 
acquainted with the beverage they call cherry-brandy. We 
none of us had ever seen such a thing, and rat er shrank back 
when she proffered it us — “just a little, leetle glass, ladies; after 
10 the oysters and lobsters, you know. Shellfish are sometimes 
thought not very wholesome.” We all shook our heads like female 
mandarins; but, at last, Mrs. Jamieson suffered herself to be 
persuaded, and we followed her lead. It was not exactly un- 
palatable, though so hot and so strong that we thought ourselves 
15 bound to give evidence that we were not accustomed to such 
things by coughing terribly — almost as strangely as Miss Barker 
had done, before we were admitted by Peggy. 

“ It’s very strong,” said Miss Pole, as she put down her empty 
glass; “I do believe there’s spirit in it.” 

20 “ Only a little drop — just necessary to make it keep,” said Miss 

Barker. “You know we put brandy-paper over preserves to 
make them keep. I often feel tipsy myself from eating damson 
tart.” 

I question whether damson tart would have opened Mrs. 
25 Jamieson’s heart as the cherry-brandy did; but she told us of a 
coming event, respecting which she had been quite silent till 
that moment. 

“My sister-in-law, Lady Glenmire, is coming to stay with 
me.” 

30 There was a chorus of “Indeed!” and then a pause. Each 
one rapidly reviewed her wardrobe, as to its fitness to appear in 
the presence of a Baron’s widow; for, of course, a series of small 
festivals were always held in Cranford on the arrival of a 
visitor at any of our friends’ houses. We felt very pleasantly 
35 excited on the present occasion. 

Not long after this the maids and the lanterns were announced. 
Mrs. Jamieson had the sedan-chair, which had squeezed itself 
into Miss Barker’s narrow lobby with some difficulty, and 


YOUR LADYSHIP” 


77 


most literally “stopped the way.” It required some skilful 
manoeuvring on the part of the old chairmen (shoemakers by 
day, but when summoned to carry the sedan dressed up in a 
strange old livery— long greatcoats, with small capes, coeval 
with the sedan, and similar to the dress of the class in Hogarth’s 
pictures) to edge, and back, and try at it again, and finally to 
succeed in carrying their burden out of Miss Barker’s front door. 
Then we heard their quick pit-a-pat along the quiet little street 
as we put on our calashes and pinned up our gowns; Miss Barker 
hovering about us with offers of help, which, if she had not re- 
membered her former occupation, and wished us to forget it, 
would have been much more pressing. 

CHAPTER VIII 

“your ladyship” 

Early the next morning — directly after twelve — Miss Pole 
made her appearance at Miss Matty’s. Some very trifling piece 
of business was alleged as a reason for the call; but there was 
evidently something behind. At last out it came. 

“By the way, you’ll think I’m strangely ignorant; but, do you 
really know, I am puzzled how we ought to address Lady Glen- 
mire. Do you say, ‘Your ladyship,’ where you would say ‘you’ 
to a common person? I have been puzzling all morning; and 
are we to say ‘My lady,’ instead of ‘Ma’am’? Now you knew 
Lady Arley — will you kindly tell me the most correct way of 
speaking to the Peerage?” 

Poor Miss Matty! she took off her spectacles and she put 
them on again — but how Lady Arley was addressed, she could 
not remember. 

“It is so long ago,” she said. “Dear! dear! how stupid I am! 
I don’t think I ever saw her more than twice. I know we used to 
call Sir Peter, ‘Sir Peter’ — but he came much oftener to see us 
than Lady Arley did. Deborah would have known in a minute. 
‘My lady’ — ‘your ladyship.’ It sounds very strange, and as if 
it was not natural. I never thought of it before; but, now "ou 
have named it, I am all in a puzzle.” 


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It was very certain Miss Pole would obtain no wise decision 
from Miss Matty, who got more bewildered every moment, and 
more perplexed as to etiquettes of address. 

“Well, I really think,” said Miss Pole, “I had better just go 
and tell Mrs. Forrester about our little difficulty. One some- 
times grows nervous; and yet one would not have Lady Glen- 
mire think we were quite ignorant of the etiquettes of high life in 
Cranford.” 

“And will you just step in here, dear Miss Pole, as you come 
back, please, and tell me what you decide upon ? Whatever you 
and Mrs. Forrester fix upon will be quite right, I’m sure. ‘ Lady 
Arley,’ ‘Sir Peter/” said Miss Matty, to herself, trying to recall 
the old forms of words. 

“Who is Lady Glenmire?” asked I. 

“Oh, she’s the widow of Mr. Jamieson — that’s Mrs. Jamie- 
son’s late husband, you know — widow of his eldest brother. 
Mrs. Jamieson was a Miss Walker, daughter of Governor 
Walker. — ‘Your ladyship.’ My dear, if they fix on that way of 
speaking, you must just let me practise a little on you first, for 
I shall feel so foolish and hot saying it the first time to Lady 
Glenmire.” 

It was really a relief to Miss Matty when Mrs. Jamieson came 
on a very unpolite errand. I notice that apathetic people have 
more quiet impertinence than others; and Mrs. Jamieson came 
now to insinuate pretty plainly that she did not particularly wish 
that the Cranford ladies should call upon her sister-in-law. I 
can hardly say how she made this clear; for I grew very indig- 
nant and warm, while with slow deliberation she was explaining 
her wishes to Miss Matty, who, a true lady herself, could hardly 
understand the feeling which made Mrs. Jamieson wish to ap- 
pear to her noble sister-in-law as if she only visited “county” 
families. Miss Matty remained puzzled and perplexed long 
after I had found out the object of Mrs. Jamieson’s visit. 

When she did understand the drift of the honorable lady’s 
call, it was pretty to see with what quiet dignity she received the 
intimation thus uncourteously given. She was not in the least 
hurt — she was of too gentle a spirit for that; nor was she exactly 
conscious of disapproving of Mrs. Jamieson’s conduct; but there 


“YOUR LADYSHIP” 79 

was something of this feeling in her mind, I am sure, which made 
her pass from the subject to others in a less flurried and more 
composed manner than usual. Mrs. Jamieson was, indeed, the 
more flurried of the two, and I could see she was glad to take her 
leave. 

A little while afterward Miss Pole returned, red and indignant. 
“Well! to be sure! You’ve had Mrs. Jamieson here, I find from 
Martha; and we are not to call on Lady Glenmire. Yes! I met 
lyirs. Jamieson, half-way between here and Mrs. Forrester’s, 
and she told me; she took me so by surprise, I had nothing to 
say. I wish I had thought of something very sharp and sarcas- 
tic; I dare say I shall to-night. And Lady Glenmire is but the 
widow of a Scotch baron after all ! I went on to look at Mrs. 
Forrester’s Peerage, to see who this lady was, that is to be kept 
under a glass case: widow of a Scotch peer — never sat in the 
House of Lords — and as poor as Job, I dare say; and she — fifth 
daughter of some Mr. Campbell or other. You are the daugh- 
ter of a rector, at any rate, and related to the Arleys; and Sir 
Peter might have been Viscount Arley, every one says.” 

Miss Matty tried to soothe Miss Pole, but in vain. That lady, 
usually so kind and good-humored, was now in a full flow of 
anger. 

“And I went and ordered a cap this morning, to be quite 
ready,” said she, at last, letting out the secret which gave sting 
to Mrs. Jamieson’s intimation. “Mrs. Jamieson shall see if it 
is so easy to get me to make fourth at a pool when she has none 
of her fine Scotch relations with her!” 

In coming out of church, the first Sunday on which Lady Glen- 
mire appeared in Cranford, we sedulously talked together, and 
turned our backs on Mrs. Jamieson and her guest. If we might 
not call on her, we would not even look at her, though we were 
dying with curiosity to know what she was like. We had the 
comfort of questioning Martha in the afternoon. Martha did 
not belong to a sphere of society whose observation could be an 
implied compliment to Lady Glenmire, and Martha had made 
good use of her eyes. 

“Well, ma’am! is it the little lady with Mrs. Jamieson, you 
mean ? I thought you would like more to know how young Mrs. 


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Smith was dressed, her being a bride.” (Mrs. Smith was the 
butcher’s wife.) 

Miss Pole said, “Good gracious me! as if we cared about a 
Mrs. Smith”; but was silent as Martha resumed her speech. 

5 “The little lady in Mrs. Jamieson’s pew had on, ma’am, 
rather an old black silk, and a shepherd’s plaid cloak, ma’am, 
and very bright black eyes, she had, ma’am, and a pleasant, 
sharp face; not over young, ma’am, but yet, I should guess, 
younger than Mrs. Jamieson herself. She looked up and 
10 down the church, like a bird, and nipped up her petticoats, 
when she came out, as quick and sharp as ever I see. I’ll tell 
you what, ma’am, she’s more like Mrs. Deacon, at the ‘Coach 
and Horses,’ nor any one.” 

“Hush, Martha!” said Miss Matty, “that’s not respectful.” 
15 “Isn’t it, ma’am? I beg pardon, I’m sure; but Jem Hearn 
said so as well. He said, she was just a sharp, stirring sort of a 
body ” 

“Lady,” said Miss Pole. 

“ Lady — as Mrs. Deacon.” 

20 Another Sunday passed away, and we still averted our eyes 
from Mrs. Jamieson and her guest, and made remarks to our- 
selves that we thought were very severe — almost too much so. 
Miss Matty was evidently uneasy at our sarcastic manner of 
speaking. 

25 Perhaps by this time Lady Glenmire had found out that Mrs. 
Jamieson’s was not the gayest, liveliest house in the world; 
perhaps Mrs. Jamieson had found out that most of the county 
families were in London, and that those who remained in the 
country were not so alive as they might have been to the circum- 
30 stance of Lady Glenmire being in their neighborhood. Great 
events spring out of small causes; so I will not pretend to say 
what induced Mrs. Jamieson to alter her determination of ex- 
cluding the Cranford ladies, and send notes of invitation all 
round for a small party on the following Tuesday. Mr. Mulliner 
35 himself brought them round. He would always ignore the fact 
of there being a back door to any house, and gave a louder rat- 
tat than his mistress, Mrs. Jamieson. He had three little notes, 
which he carried in a large basket, in order to impress his mis- 


YOUR LADYSHIP 


81 


tress with an idea of their great weight, though they might easily 
have gone into his waistcoat pocket. 

Miss Matty and I quietly decided we would have a previous 
engagement at home; it was the evening on which Miss Matty 
usually made candle-lighters of all the notes and letters of the 
week; for on Mondays her accounts were always made straight 
— not a penny owing from the week before; so, by a natural 
arrangement, making candle-lighters fell upon a Tuesday even- 
ing, and gave us a legitimate excuse for declining Mrs. Jamie- 
son’s invitation. But before our answer was written, in came 
Miss Pole, with an open note in her hand. 

“So!” she said. “Ah! I see you have got your note, too. 
Better late than never. I could have told my Lady Glenmire she 
would be glad enough of our society before fortnight was over.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Matty, “we’re asked for Tuesday evening. 
And perhaps you would just kindly bring your work across and 
drink tea with us that night. It is my usual regular time for 
looking over the last week’s bills, and notes, and letters, and 
making candle-lighters of them; but that does not seem quite 
reason enough for saying I have a previous engagement at home, 
though I meant to make it do. Now, if you would come, my 
conscience would be quite at ease, and luckily the note is not 
written yet.” 

I saw Miss Pole’s countenance change while Miss Matty was 
speaking. 

“Don’t you mean to go then?” asked she. 

“Oh, no!” said Miss Matty, quietly. “You don’t either, I 
suppose ? ” 

“I don’t know,” replied Miss Pole. “Yes, I think I do,” said 
she, rather briskly; and on seeing Miss Matty look surprised, 
she added, “You see, one would not like Mrs. Jamieson to think 
that anything she could do, or say, was of consequence enough 
to give offence; it would be a kind of letting down of ourselves, 
that I, for one, should not like. It would be too flattering to. 
Mrs. Jamieson if we allowed her to suppose that what she had 
said affected us a week, nay ten days afterward.” 

“Well! I suppose it is wrong to be hurt and annoyed so long 
about anything; and perhaps, after all, she did not mean to vex 


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us. But I must say, I could not have brought myself to say the 
things Mrs. Jamieson did about our not calling. I really don’t 
think I shall go.” 

“Oh, come! Miss Matty, you must go; you know our friend 
5 Mrs. Jamieson is much more phlegmatic than most people, and 
does not enter into the little delicacies of feeling which you pos- 
sess in so remarkable a degree.” 

“ I thought you possessed them, too, that day Mrs. Jamieson 
called to tell us not to go,” said Miss Matty, innocently. 

10 But Miss Pole, in addition to her delicacies of feeling, pos- 
sessed a very smart cap, which she was anxious to show to an 
admiring world; and so she seemed to forget all her angry words 
uttered not a fortnight before, and to be ready to act on what 
she called the great Christian principle of “Forgive and forget”; 
15 and she lectured dear Miss Matty so long on this head that she 
absolutely ended by assuring her it was her duty, as a deceased 
rector’s daughter, to buy a new cap and go to the party at Mrs. 
Jamieson’s. So “we were most happy to accept,” instead of 
“regretting that we were obliged to decline.” 

20 The expenditure on dress in Cranford was principally in that 
one article referred to. If the heads were buried in smart new 
caps, the ladies were like ostriches, and cared not what became 
of their bodies. Old gowns, white and venerable collars, any 
number of brooches, up and down and everywhere (some with 
25 dogs’ eyes painted in them; some that were like small picture- 
frames with mausoleums and weeping-willows neatly executed 
in hair inside; some, again, with miniatures of ladies and gentle- 
men sweetly smiling out of a nest of stiff muslin), old brooches 
for a permanent ornament, and new caps to suit the fashion of 
30 the day — the ladies of Cranford always dressed with chaste ele- 
gance and propriety, as Miss Barker once prettily expressed it. 

And with three new caps, and a greater array of brooches than 
had ever been seen together at one time since Cranford was a 
. town, did Mrs. Forrester, and Miss Matty, and Miss Pole ap- 
35 pear on that memorable Tuesday evening. I counted seven 
brooches myself on Miss Pole’s dress. Two were fixed negli- 
gently in her cap (one was a butterfly made of Scotch pebbles, 
which a vivid imagination might believe to be the real insect); 


YOUR LADYSHIP 


83 


one fastened her net neckerchief; one her collar; one orna- 
mented the front of her gown, midway between her throat and 
waist; and another adorned the point of her stomacher. Where 
the seventh was I have forgotten, but it was somewhere about 
her, I am sure. 5 

But I am getting on too fast, in describing the dresses of the 
company. I should first relate the gathering on the way to Mrs. 
Jamieson’s. That lady lived in a large house just outside the 
town. A road which had known what it was to be a street ran 
right before the house, which opened out upon it without any 10 
intervening garden or court. Whatever the sun was about, he 
never shone on the front of that house. To be sure, the living- 
rooms were at the back, looking on to a pleasant garden; the front 
windows only belonged to kitchens and housekeepers’ rooms 
and pantries, and in one of them Mr. Mulliner was reported to 15 
sit. Indeed, looking askance, we often saw the back of a head 
covered with hair-powder, which also extended itself over his 
coat-collar down to his very waist; and this imposing back was 
always engaged in reading the “St. James’s Chronicle,” opened 
wide, which, in some degree, accounted for the length of time 20 
the said newspaper was in reaching us — equal subscribers with 
Mrs. Jamieson, though, in right of her honorableness, she always 
had the reading of it first. This very Tuesday, the delay in for- 
warding the last number had been particularly aggravating; 
just when both Miss Pole and Miss Matty, the former more es- 25 
pecially, had been wanting to see it, in order to coach up the 
court news ready for the evening’s interview with aristocracy. 
Miss Pole told us she had absolutely taken time by the forelock, 
and been dressed by five o’clock, in order to be ready if the “St. 
James’s Chronicle” should come in at the last moment — the 30 
very “St. James’s Chronicle” which the powdered head was 
tranquilly and composedly reading as we passed the accustomed 
window this evening. 

“The impudence of the man!” said Miss Pole, in a low in- 
dignant whisper. “I should like to ask him whether his mis- 35 
tress pays her quarter-share for his exclusive use.” 

We looked at her in admiration of the courage of her thought; 
for Mr. Mulliner was an object of great awe to all of us. He 


84 


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seemed never to have forgotten his condescension in coming to 
live at Cranford. Miss Jenkyns, at times, had stood forth as the 
undaunted champion of her sex, and spoken to him on terms of 
equality; but even Miss Jenkyns could get no higher. In his 
5 pleasantest and most gracious moods he looked like a sulky 
cockatoo. He did not speak except in gruff monosyllables. He 
would wait in the hall when we begged him not to wait, and 
then look deeply offended because we had kept him there, while, 
with trembling, hasty hands, we prepared ourselves for appear- 
10 ing in company. • 

Miss Pole ventured on a small joke as we went up-stairs, in- 
tended, though addressed to us, to afford Mr. Mulliner some 
slight amusement. We all smiled, in order to seem as if we felt 
at our ease, and timidly looked for Mr. Mulliner’s sympathy. 
15 Not a muscle of that wooden face had relaxed; and we were 
grave in an instant. 

Mrs. Jamieson’s drawing-room was cheerful; the evening sun 
came streaming into it, and the large square window was clus- 
tered round with flowers. The furniture was white and gold; 
20 not the later style, Louis Quatorze, I think they call it, all shells 
and twirls; no, Mrs. Jamieson’s chairs and tables had not a 
curve or bend about them. The chair and table legs diminished 
as they neared the ground, and were straight and square in all 
their corners. The chairs were all a-row against the walls, with 
25 the exception of four or five which stood in a circle round the 
fire. They were railed with white bars across the back, and 
knobbed with gold; neither the railings nor the knobs invited to 
ease. There was a japanned table devoted to literature, on 
which lay a Bible, a Peerage, and a Prayer-Book. There was 
30 another square Pembroke table dedicated to the Fine Arts, on 
which were a kaleidoscope, conversation-cards, puzzle-cards 
(tied together to an interminable length with faded pink satin 
ribbon), and a box painted in fond imitation of the drawings 
which decorate tea-chests. Carlo lay on the worsted-worked 
35 rug, and ungraciously barked at us as we entered. Mrs. Jamie- 
son stood up, giving us each a torpid smile of welcome, and look- 
ing helplessly beyond us at Mr. Mulliner, as if she hoped he 
would place us in chairs, for, if he did not, she never could. I 


YOUR LADYSHIP 


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suppose he thought we could find our way to the circle round 
the fire, which reminded me of Stonehenge, I don’t know why. 
Lady Glenmire came to the rescue of our hostess, and, somehow 
or other, we found ourselves for the first time placed agreeably, 
and not formally, in Mrs. Jamieson’s house. Lady Glenmire, 
now we had time to look at her, proved to be a bright little 
woman of middle age, who had been very pretty in the days of 
her youth, and who was even yet very pleasant-looking. I saw 
Miss Pole appraising her dress in the first five minutes, and I 
take her word when she said the next day: 

“My dear! ten pounds would have purchased every stitch she 
had on — lace and all.” 

It was pleasant to suspect that a peeress could be poor, and 
partly reconciled us to the fact that her husband had never 
sat in the House of Lords; which, when we first heard of it, 
seemed a kind of swindling us out of our respect on false pre- 
tences; a sort of “A Lord and No Lord” business. 

We were all very silent at first. We were thinking what we 
could talk about, that should be high enough to interest My 
Lady. There had been a rise in the price of sugar, which, as 
preserving-time was near, was a piece of intelligence to all our 
housekeeping hearts, and would have been the natural topic if 
Lady Glenmire had not been by. But we were not sure if the 
peerage ate preserves — much less knew how t*hey were made. 
At last, Miss Pole, who had always a great deal of courage and 
savoir faire, spoke to Lady Glenmire, who on her part had 
seemed just as much puzzled to know how to break the silence 
as we were. 

“Has your ladyship been to Court lately?” asked she; and 
then gave a little glance around at us, half timid and half tri- 
umphant, as much as to say, “See how judiciously I have chosen 
a subject befitting the rank of the stranger.” 

“I never was there in my life,” said Lady Glenmire, with a 
broad Scotch accent, but in a very sweet voice. And then, as if 
she had been too abrupt, she added: “We very seldom went to 
London — only twice, in fact, during all my married life; and 
before I was married, my father had far too large a family” 
(fifth daughter of Mr. Campbell was in all our minds, I am 


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sure) “to take us often from our home, even to Edinburgh. 
Ye’ll have been in Edinburgh, maybe?” said she, suddenly 
brightening up with the hope of a common interest. We had 
none of us been there; but Miss Pole had an uncle who once had 
passed a night there, which was very pleasant. 

Mrs. Jamieson, meanwhile, was absorbed in wonder why Mr. 
Mulliner did not bring the tea; and at length the wonder oozed 
out of her mouth. 

“I had better ring the bell, my dear, had not I?” said Lady 
Glenmire, briskly. 

“No — I think not — Mulliner does not like to be hurried.” 

We should have liked our tea, for we dined at an earlier hour 
than Mrs. Jamieson. I suspect Mr. Mulliner had to finish the 
“ St. James’s Chronicle ” before he chose to trouble himself about 
tea. His mistress fidgeted and fidgeted, and kept saying, “I 
can’t think why Mulliner does not bring tea. I can’t think what 
he can be about.” And Lady Glenmire at last grew quite im- 
patient, but it was a pretty kind of impatience, after all; and she 
rang the bell rather sharply, on receiving a half-permission from 
her sister-in-law to do so. Mr. Mulliner appeared in dignified 
surprise. “Oh!” said Mrs. Jamieson, “Lady Glenmire rang 
the bell; I believe it was for tea.” 

In a few minutes tea was brought. Very delicate was the 
china, very old the plate, very thin the bread and butter, and 
very small the lumps of sugar. Sugar was evidently Mrs. 
Jamieson’s favorite economy. I question if the little filigree 
sugar-tongs, made something like scissors, could have opened 
themselves wide enough to take up an honest, vulgar, good- 
sized piece; and when I tried to seize two little minnikin pieces 
at once, so as not to be detected in too many returns to the sugar- 
basin, they absolutely dropped one, with a little sharp clatter, 
quite in a malicious and unnatural manner. But before this 
happened, we had had a slight disappointment. In the little 
silver jug was cream, in the larger one was milk. As soon as 
Mr. Mulliner came in, Carlo began to beg, which was a thing 
our manners forbade us to do, though I am sure we were just as 
hungry; and Mrs. Jamieson said she was certain we would 
excuse her if she gave her poor dumb Carlo his tea first. She 


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accordingly mixed a saucerful for him, and put it down for him 
to lap; and then she told us how intelligent and sensible the dear 
little fellow was; he knew cream quite well, and constantly 
refused tea with only milk in it: so the milk was left for us; but 
we silently thought we were quite as intelligent and sensible as 
Carlo, and felt as if insult were added to injury when we were 
called upon to admire the gratitude evinced by his wagging his 
tail for the cream which should have been ours. 

After tea we thawed down into common-life subjects. We 
were thankful to Lady Glenmire for having proposed some more 
bread and butter, and this mutual want made us better ac- 
quainted with her than we should ever have been with talking 
about the Court, though Miss Pole did say she had hoped to 
know how the dear Queen was from some one who had seen 
her. * 

The friendship begun over bread and butter extended on to 
cards. Lady Glenmire played Preference to admiration, and 
was a complete authority as to Ombre and Quadrille. Even 
Miss Pole quite forgot to say “my lady,” and “your ladyship,” 
and said “Basto! ma’am”; “you have Spadille, I believe,” just 
as quietly as if we had never held the great Cranford parliament 
on the subject of the proper mode of addressing a peeress. 

As a proof of how thoroughly we had forgotten that we were 
in the presence of one who might have sat down to tea with a 
coronet, instead of a cap, on her head, Mrs. Forrester related a 
curious little fact to Lady Glenmire — an anecdote known to the 
circle of her intimate friends, but of which even Mrs. Jamieson 
was not aware. It related to some fine old lace, the sole relic of 
better days, which Lady Glenmire was admiring on Mrs. For- 
rester’s collar. 

“Yes,” said that lady, “such lace cannot be got now for either 
love or money; made by the nuns abroad, they tell me. They 
say that they can’t make it now, even there. But perhaps they can 
now they’ve passed the Catholic Emancipation Bill. I should 
not wonder. But, in the meantime, I treasure up my lace very 
much. I daren’t even trust the washing of it to my maid” (the 
little charity schoolgirl I have named before, but who sounded 
well as “my maid”). <f I always wash it myself. And once it 


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had a narrow escape. Of course, your ladyship knows that such 
lace must never be starched or ironed. Some people wash it in 
sugar and water, and some in coffee, to make it the right yellow 
color; but I myself have a very good receipt for washing it in 
5 milk, which stiffens it enough, and gives it a very good creamy 
color. Well, ma’am, I had tacked it together (and the beauty of 
this fine lace is that, when it is wet, it goes into a very little space), 
and put it to soak in milk, when, unfortunately, I left the room ; 
on my return, I found pussy on the table, looking very like a 
10 thief, but gulping very uncomfortably, as if she was half-choked 
with something she wanted to swallow and could not. And, 
would you believe it ? At first I pitied her, and said ‘ Poor pussy! 
poor pussy!’ till, all at once, I looked and saw the cup of milk 
empty — cleaned out! ‘You naughty cat!’ said I; and I believe 
15 I was provoked enough to give her a slap, which did no good, 
but only helped the lace down — just as one slaps a choking child 
on the back. I could have cried, I was so vexed; but I deter- 
mined I would not give the lace up without a struggle for it. I 
hoped the lace might disagree with her, at any rate; but it would 
20 have been too much for Job, if he had seen, as I did, that cat 
come in, quite placid and purring, not a quarter of an hour 
after, and almost expecting to be stroked. ‘No, pussy!’ said I, 
‘if you have any conscience you ought not to expect that!’ And 
then a thought struck me; and I rang the bell for my maid, and 
25 sent her to Mr. Hoggins, with my compliments, and would he 
be kind enough to lend me one of his top-boots for an hour ? I 
did not think there was anything odd in the message; but Jenny 
said the young men in the surgery laughed as if they would be 
ill at my wanting a top-boot. When it came, Jenny and I put 
30 pussy in, with her forefeet straight down, so that they were 
fastened, and could not scratch, and we gave her a teaspoonful 
of curran t-jelly in which (your ladyship must excuse me) I had 
mixed some tartar-emetic. I shall never forget how anxious I 
was for the next half-hour. I took Pussy to my own room, and 
35 spread a clean towel on the floor. I could have kissed her when 
she returned the lace to sight, very much as it had gone down. 
Jenny had boiling water ready, and we soaked it and soaked it, 
and spread it on a lavender-bush in the sun before I could touch 


YOUR LADYSHIP ” 


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it again, even to put it in milk. But now your ladyship would 
never guess that it had been in pussy’s inside.” 

We found out, in the course of the evening, that Lady Glen- 
mire was going to pay Mrs. Jamieson a long visit, as she had 
given up her apartments in Edinburgh, and had no ties to take 
her back there in a hurry. On the whole, we were rather glad 
to hear this, for she had made a pleasant impression upon us; 
and it was also very comfortable to find, from things which 
dropped out in the course of conversation, that, in addition to 
many other genteel qualities, she was far removed from the 
“vulgarity of wealth.” 

“Don’t you find it very unpleasant walking?” asked Mrs. 
Jamieson, as our respective servants were announced. It was a 
pretty regular question from Mrs. Jamieson, who had her own 
carriage in the coach-house, and always went out in a sedan- 
chair to the very shortest distances. The answers were nearly 
as much a matter of course. 

“Oh dear, no! it is so pleasant and still at night!” “Such a 
refreshment after the excitement of a party!” “The stars are 
so beautiful!” This last from Miss Matty. 

“Are you fond of astronomy?” Lady Glenmire asked. 

“Not very,” replied Miss Matty, rather confused at the mo- 
ment to remember which was astronomy and which was astrology 
—but the answer was true under either circumstance, for she 
read, and was slightly alarmed at Francis Moore’s astrological 
predictions; and, as to astronomy, in a private and confidential 
conversation, she had told me she never could believe that the 
earth was moving constantly, and that she would not believe it 
if she could, it made her feel so tired and dizzy whenever she 
thought about it. 

In our pattens we picked our way home with extra care that 
night, so refined and delicate were our perceptions after drinking 
tea with “my lady.” 


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CHAPTER IX 

SIGNOR BRUNONI 

Soon after the events of which I gave an account in my last 
paper, I was summoned home by my father’s illness; and for a 
time I forgot, in anxiety about him, to wonder how my dear 
friends at Cranford were getting on, or how Lady Glenmire 
5 could reconcile herself to the dulness of the long visit which she 
was still paying to her sister-in-law, Mrs. Jamieson. When my 
father grew a little stronger I accompanied him to the seaside, 
so that altogether I seemed banished from Cranford, and was 
deprived of the opportunity of hearing any chance intelligence 
10 of the dear little town for the greater part of that year. 

Late in November — when we had returned home again, and 
my father was once more in good health — I received a letter 
from Miss Matty ; and a very mysterious letter it was. She began 
many sentences without ending them, running them one into 
15 another, in much the same confused sort of way in which written 
words run together on blotting-paper. All I could make out was 
that, if my father was better (which she hoped he was), and 
would take warning and wear a great-coat from Michaelmas to 
Lady-day, if turbans were in fashion, could I tell her ? Such a 
20 piece of gayety was going to happen as had not been seen or 
known of since Wombwell’s lions came, when one of them ate a 
little child’s arm; and she was, perhaps, too old to care about 
dress, but a new cap she must have; and, having heard that 
turbans were worn, and some of the county families likely to 
25 come, she would like to look tidy if I would bring her a cap from 
the milliner I employed; and oh, dear! how careless of her to 
forget that she wrote to beg I would come and pay her a visit 
next Tuesday; when she hoped to have something to offer me in 
the way of amusement, which she would not now more par- 
30 ticularly describe, only sea-green was her favorite color. So she 
ended her letter; but in a P. S. she added, she thought she might 
as well tell me what was the peculiar attraction to Cranford just 
now; Signor Brunoni was going to exhibit his wonderful magic in 


SIGNOR BRUNONI 


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the Cranford Assembly Rooms on Wednesday and Friday even- 
ing in the following week. 

I was very glad to accept the invitation from my dear Miss 
Matty, independently of the conjurer, and most particularly 
anxious to prevent her from disfiguring her small, gentle, mousey 
face with a great Saracen’s-head turban; and accordingly, I 
bought her a pretty, neat, middle-aged cap, which, however, 
was rather a disappointment to her when, on my arrival, she 
followed me into my bedroom, ostensibly to poke the fire, but in 
reality, I do believe, to see if the sea-green turban was not inside 
the cap-box with which I had travelled. It was in vain that I 
twirled the cap round on my hand to exhibit back and side 
fronts: her heart had been set upon a turban, and all she could 
do was to say, with resignation in her look and voice: 

“I am sure you did your best, my dear. It is just like the 
caps all the ladies in Cranford are wearing, and they have had 
theirs for a year, I dare say. I should have liked something 
newer, I confess— something more like the turbans Miss Betty 
Barker tells me Queen Adelaide wears; but it is very pretty, my 
dear. And I dare say lavender will wear better than sea-green. 
Well, after all, what is dress, that we should care about it! 
You’ll tell me if you want anything, my dear. Here is the bell. 
I suppose turbans have not got down to Drumble yet?” 

So saying, the dear old lady gently bemoaned herself out of the 
room, leaving me to dress for the evening, when, as she informed 
me, she expected Miss Pole and Mrs. Forrester, and she hoped 
I should not feel myself too much tired to join the party. Of 
course I should not; and I made some haste to unpack and ar- 
range my dress; but, with all my speed, I heard the arrivals and 
the buzz of conversation in the next room before I was ready. 
Just as I opened the door I caught the words, “ I was foolish to 
expect anything very genteel out of the Drumble shops; poor 
girl! she did her best, I’ve no doubt.” But, for all that, I had 
rather that she blamed Drumble and me than disfigured herself 
with a turban. 

Miss Pole was always the person, in the trio of Cranford ladies 
now assembled, to have had adventures. She was in the habit 
of spending the morning in rambling from shop to shop, not to 


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purchase anything (except an occasional reel of cotton, or a 
piece of tape), but to see the new articles and report upon them, 
and to collect all the stray pieces of intelligence in the town. 
She had a way, too, of demurely popping hither and thither into 
5 all sorts of places to gratify her curiosity on any point — a way 
which, if she had not looked so very genteel and prim, might 
have been considered impertinent. And now, by the expressive 
way in which she cleared her throat, and waited for all minor 
subjects (such as caps and turbans) to be cleared off the course, 
10 we knew she had something very particular to relate, when the 
due pause came— and I defy any people, possessed of common 
modesty, to keep up a conversation long, where one among them 
sits up aloft in silence, looking down upon all the things they 
chance to say as trivial and contemptible compared to what they 
15 could disclose, if properly entreated. Miss Pole began: 

“ As I was stepping out of Gordon’s shop to-day, I chanced to 
go into the ‘George’ (my Betty has a second cousin who is 
chambermaid there, and I thought Betty would like to hear how 
she was), and, not seeing any one about, I strolled up the stair- 
20 case, and found myself in the passage leading to the Assembly 
Room (you and I remember the Assembly Room, I am sure, 
Miss Matty! and the menuets de la cour!); so I went on, not 
thinking of what I was about, when, all at once, I perceived that 
I was in the middle of the preparations for to-morrow night — 
25 the room being divided with great clothes-maids, over which 
Crosby’s men were tacking red flannel; very dark and odd it 
seemed; it quite bewildered me, and I was going on behind the 
screens, in my absence of mind, when a gentleman (quite the 
gentleman, I can assure you) stepped forward and asked if I had 
30 any business he could arrange for me. He spoke such pretty 
broken English, I could not help thinking of Thaddeus of War- 
saw, and the Hungarian Brothers, and Santo Sebastiani; and 
while I was busy picturing his past life to myself, he had bowed 
me out of the room. But wait a minute! You have not heard 
35 half my story yet! I was going down-stairs, when who should I 
meet but Betty’s second cousin. So, of course, I stopped to 
speak to her for Betty’s sake; and she told me that I had really 
seen the conjurer — the gentleman who spoke broken English 


SIGNOR BRUNONI 


93 


was Signor Brunoni himself. Just at this moment he passed us 
on the stairs, making such a graceful bow! in reply to which I 
dropped a curtsy — all foreigners have such polite manners, one 
catches something of it. But, when he had gone down-stairs, I 
bethought me that I had dropped my glove in the Assembly 
Room (it was safe in my muff all the time, but I never found it 
till afterward); so I went back, and, just as I was creeping up 
the passage left on one side of the great screen that goes nearly 
across the room, who should I see but the very same gentleman 
that had met me before, and passed me on the stairs, coming 
now forward from the inner part of the room, to which there is 
no entrance — you remember, Miss Matty — and just repeating, 
in his pretty broken English, the inquiry if I had any business 
there — I don’t mean that he put it quite so bluntly, but he seemed 
very determined that I should not pass the screen — so, of course, 
I explained about my glove, which, curiously enough, I found 
at that very moment.” 

Miss Pole, then, had seen the conjurer — the real, live con- 
jurer! and numerous were the questions we all asked her. “ Had 
he a beard?” “Was he young or old?” “Fair or dark?” 
“Did he look” — (unable to shape my question prudently, I put 
it in another form) — “ How did he look ? ” In short, Miss Pole 
was the heroine of the evening, owing to her morning’s en- 
counter. If she was not the rose (that is to say, the conjurer), 
she had been near it. 

Conjuration, sleight of hand, magic, witchcraft were the sub- 
jects of the evening. Miss Pole was slightly sceptical, and in- 
clined to think there might be a scientific solution found for 
even the proceedings of the Witch of Endor. Mrs. Forrester 
believed everything, from ghosts to death-watches. Miss Matty 
ranged between the two— always convinced by the last speaker. 
I think she was naturally more inclined to Mrs. Forrester’s side, 
but a desire of proving herself a worthy sister to Miss Jenkyns 
kept her equally balanced— Miss Jenkyns, who would never 
allow a servant to call the little rolls of tallow that formed them- 
selves round candles “winding-sheets,” but insisted on their 
being spoken of as “roly-polies!” A sister of hers to be super- 
stitious! It would never do. 


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After tea, I was despatched down-stairs into the dining-parlor 
for that volume of the old Encyclopaedia which contained the 
nouns beginning with C, in order that Miss Pole might prime 
herself with scientific explanations for the tricks of the following 
5 evening. It spoiled the pool at Preference which Miss Matty and 
Mrs. Forrester had been looking forward to, for Miss Pole be- 
came so much absorbed in her subject, and the plates by which 
it was illustrated, that we felt it would be cruel to disturb her 
otherwise than by one or two well-timed yawns, which I threw 
10 in now and then, for I was really touched by the meek way in 
which the two ladies were bearing their disappointment. But 
Miss Pole only read the more zealously, imparting to us no more 
interesting information than this: 

“Ah! I see; I comprehend perfectly. A represents the ball. 
15 Put A between B and D — no! between C and F, and turn the 
second joint of the third finger of your left hand over the wrist 
of your right H. Very clear indeed! My dear Mrs. Forrester, 
conjuring and witchcraft is a mere affair of the alphabet. Do 
let me read you this one passage !” 

20 Mrs. Forrester implored Miss Pole to spare her, saying, from 
a child upward, she never could understand being read aloud to; 
and I dropped the pack of cards, which I had been shuffling, 
very audibly; and by this discreet movement I obliged Miss Pole 
to perceive that Preference was to have been the order of the 
25 evening, and to propose, rather unwillingly, that the pool should 
commence. The pleasant brightness that stole over the other 
two ladies’ faces on this! Miss Matty had one or two twinges 
of self-reproach for having interrupted Miss Pole in her studies: 
and did not remember her cards well, or give her full attention 
30 to the game, until she had soothed her conscience by offering to 
lend the volume of the Encyclopaedia to Miss Pole, who accepted 
it thankfully, and said Betty should take it home when she 
came with the lantern. 

The next evening we were all in a little gentle flutter at the 
35 idea of the gayety before us. Miss Matty went up to dress be- 
times, and hurried me until I was ready, when we found we had 
an hour and a half to wait before the “doors opened at seven 
precisely.” And we had only twenty yards to go! However, as 


SIGNOR BRUNONI 


95 


Miss Matty said, it would not do to get too much absorbed in 
anything, and forget the time; so she thought we had better sit 
quietly, without lighting the candles, till five minutes to seven. 
So Miss Matty dozed, and I knitted. 

At length we set off; and at the door, under the carriage-way 
at the “George,” we met Mrs. Forrester and Miss Pole: the 
latter was discussing the subject of the evening with more 
vehemence than ever, and throwing A’s and B’s at our heads 
like hailstones. She had even copied one or two of the “re- 
ceipts” — as she called them — for the different tricks, on backs 
of letters, ready to explain and to detect Signor Brunoni’s 
arts. 

We went into the cloak-room adjoining the Assembly Room; 
Miss Matty gave a sigh or two to her departed youth, and the 
remembrance of the last time she had been there, as she adjusted 
her pretty new cap before the strange, quaint old mirror in the 
cloak-room. The Assembly Room had been added to the inn, 
about a hundred years before, by the different county families, 
who met together there once a month during the winter to dance 
and play at cards. Many a county beauty had first swam 
through the minuet that she afterward danced before Queen 
Charlotte in this very room. It was said that one of the Gunnings 
had graced the apartment with her beauty; it was certain that a 
rich and beautiful widow, Lady Williams, had here been smitten 
with the noble figure of a young artist, who was staying with 
some family in the neighborhood for professional purposes, and 
accompanied his patrons to the Cranford Assembly. And a 
pretty bargain poor Lady Williams had of her handsome hus- 
band, if all tales were true. Now, no beauty blushed and 
dimpled along the sides of the Cranford Assembly Room; no 
handsome artist won hearts by his bow, chapeau bras in hand; 
the old room was dingy; the salmon-colored paint had faded 
into a drab; great pieces of plaster had chipped off from the 
white wreaths and festoons on its walls; but still a mouldy odor 
of aristocracy lingered about the place, and a dusty recollection 
of the days that were gone made Miss Matty and Mrs. Forrester 
bridle up as they entered, and walk mincingly up the room, as 
if there were a number of genteel observers, instead of two little 


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boys with a stick of toffy between them with which to beguile 
the time. 

We stopped short at the second front row; I could hardly 
understand why, until I heard Miss Pole ask a stray waiter if 
any of the county families were expected; and when he shook 
his head and believed not; Mrs. Forrester and Miss Matty 
moved forward, and our party represented a conversational 
square. The front row was soon augmented and enriched by 
Lady Glenmire and Mrs. Jamieson. We six occupied the two 
front rows, and our aristocratic seclusion was respected by the 
groups of shopkeepers who strayed in from time to time and 
huddled together on the back benches. At- least I conjectured 
so, from the noise they made, and the sonorous bumps they 
gave in sitting down; but when, in weariness of the obstinate 
green curtain that would not draw up, but would stare at me 
with two odd eyes, seen through holes, as in the old tapestry 
story, I would fain have looked round at the merry chattering 
people behind me, Miss Pole clutched my arm, and begged me 
not to turn, for “it was not the thing.” What “the thing” was, 
I never could find out, but it must have been something emi- 
nently dull and tiresome. However, we all sat eyes right, square 
front, gazing at the tantalizing curtain, and hardly speaking in- 
telligibly, we were so afraid of being caught in the vulgarity of 
making any noise in a place of public amusement. Mrs. Jamie- 
son was the most fortunate, for she fell asleep. 

At length the eyes disappeared — the curtain quivered — one 
side went up before the other, which stuck fast; it was dropped 
again, and, with a fresh effort, and a vigorous pull from some 
unseen hand, it flew up, revealing to our sight a magnificent 
gentleman in the Turkish costume, seated before a little table, 
gazing at us (I should have said with the same eyes that I had 
last seen through the hole in the curtain) with calm and con- 
descending dignity, “ like a being of another sphere,” as I heard 
a sentimental voice ejaculate behind me. 

“That’s not Signor Brunoni!” said Miss Pole, decidedly; and 
so audibly that I am sure he heard, for he glanced down over his 
flowing beard at our party with an air of mute reproach. “ Signor 
Brunoni had no beard — but perhaps he’ll come soon.” So she 


SIGNOR BRUNONI 


• 97 


lulled herself into patience. Meanwhile, Miss Matty had recon- 
noitred through her eye-glass, wiped it, and looked again. 
Then she turned round, and said to me, in a kind, mild, sorrow- 
ful tone: 

“You see, my dear, turbans are worn.” 

But we had no time for more conversation. The Grand Turk, 
as Miss Pole chose to call him, arose and announced himself as 
Signor Brunoni. 

“I don’t believe him!” exclaimed Miss Pole, in a defiant 
manner. He looked at her again, with the same dignified up- 
braiding in his countenance. “I don’t!” she repeated more 
positively than ever. “Signor Brunoni had not got that muffy 
sort of thing about his chin, but looked like a close-shaved 
Christian gentleman.” 

Miss Pole’s energetic speeches had the good effect of wakening 
up Mrs. Jamieson, who opened her eyes wide, in sign of the 
deepest attention — a proceeding which silenced Miss Pole 
and encouraged the Grand Turk to proceed, which he did in 
very broken English — so broken that there was no cohesion 
between the parts of his sentences; a fact which he himself 
perceived at last, and so left off speaking and proceeded to 
action. 

Now we were astonished. How he did his tricks I could not 
imagine; no, not even when Miss Pole pulled out her pieces of 
paper and began reading aloud — or at least in a very audible 
whisper — the separate “receipts” for the most common of his 
tricks. If ever I saw a man frown and look enraged, I saw the 
Grand Turk frown at Miss Pole; but, as she said, what could 
be expected but unchristian looks from a Mussulman ? If Miss 
Pole were sceptical, and more engrossed with her receipts and 
diagrams than with his tricks, Miss Matty and Mrs. Forrester 
were mystified and perplexed to the highest degree. Mrs. 
Jamieson kept taking her spectacles off and wiping them, as if 
she thought it was something defective in them which made the 
legerdemain; and Lady Glenmire, who had seen many curious 
sights in Edinburgh, was very much struck with the tricks, and 
would not at all agree with Miss Pole, who declared that any- 
body could do them with a little practice, and that she would, 


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them assume their most fearful aspect. But we discovered that 
she had begged one of Mr. Hoggins’s worn-out hats to hang up 
in her lobby, and we (at least I) had doubts as to whether she 
really would enjoy the little adventure of having her house 
broken into, as she protested she should. Miss Matty made no 
secret of being an arrant coward, but she went regularly through 
her housekeeper’s duty of inspection — only the hour for this 
became earlier and earlier, till at last \ye went the rounds at 
half-past six, and Miss Matty adjourned to bed soon after 
seven, “in order to get the night over the sooner.” 

Cranford had so long piqued itself on being an honest and 
moral town that it had grown to fancy itself too genteel and 
well-bred to be otherwise, and felt the stain upon its character 
at this time doubly. But we comforted ourselves with the assur- 
ance which we gave to each other that the robberies could never 
have been committed by any Cranford person; it must have 
been a stranger or strangers who brought this disgrace upon the 
town, and occasioned as many precautions as if we were living 
among the Red Indians or the French. 

This last comparison of our nightly state of defence and 
fortification was made by Mrs. Forrester, whose father had 
served under General Burgoyne in the American war, and whose 
husband had fought the French in Spain. She indeed inclined 
to the idea that, in some way, the French were connected with 
the small thefts, which were ascertained facts, and the burglaries 
and highway robberies, which were rumors. She had been 
deeply impressed with the idea of French spies at some time in 
her life; and the notion could never be fairly eradicated, but 
sprang up again from time to time. And now her theory was 
this: The Cranford people respected themselves too much, and 
were too grateful to the aristocraoy who were so kind as to live 
near the town, ever to disgrace their bringing up by being dis- 
honest or immoral; therefore, we must believe that the robbers 
were strangers — if strangers, why not foreigners ? — if foreigners, 
who so likely as the French? Signor Brunoni spoke broken 
English like a Frenchman; and, though he wore a turban like a 
Turk, Mrs. Forrester had seen a print of Madame de Stael with 
a turban on, and another of Mr. Denon in just such a dress as 


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that in which the conjurer had made his appearance, showing 
clearly that the French, as well as the Turks, wore turbans. 
There could be no doubt Signor Brunoni was a Frenchman — a 
French spy come to discover the weak and undefended places 
of England, and doubtless he had his accomplices. For her 
part, she, Mrs. Forrester, had always had her own opinion of 
Miss Pole’s adventure at the “George Inn” — seeing two men 
where only one was believed to be. French people had ways and 
means which, she was thankful to say, the English knew nothing 
about; and she had never felt quite easy in her mind about going 
to see that conjurer — it was rather too much like a forbidden 
thing, though the rector was there. In short, Mrs. Forrester 
grew more excited than we had ever known her before, and, 
being an officer’s daughter and widow, we looked up to her 
opinion, of course. 

Really I do not know how much was true or false in the re- 
ports which flew about like wildfire just at this time; but it 
seemed to me then that there was every reason to believe that at 
Mardon (a small town about eight miles from Cranford) houses 
and shops were entered by holes made in the walls, the bricks 
being silently carried away in the dead of the night, and all done 
so quietly that no sound was heard either in or out of the house. 
Miss Matty gave it up in despair when she heard of this. “What 
was the use,” said she, “ of locks and bolts, and bells to the win- 
dows, and going round the house every night ? That last trick 
was fit for a conjurer. Now she did believe that Signor Brunoni 
was at the bottom of it.” 

One afternoon, about five o’clock, we were startled by a hasty 
knock at the door. Miss Matty bade me run and tell Martha 
on no account to open the door till she (Miss Matty) had recon- 
noitred through the window; and she armed herself with a foot- 
stool to drop down on the head of the visitor, in case he should 
show a face covered with black crape, as he looked up in answer 
to her inquiry of who was there. But it was nobody but Miss 
Pole and Betty. The former came up-stairs, carrying a little 
hand-basket, and she was evidently in a state of great agitation. 

“Take care of that I” said she to me, as I offered to relieve 
her of her basket. “ It’s my plate. I am sure there is a plan to 


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rob my house to-night. I am come to throw myself on your 
hospitality, Miss Matty. Betty is going to sleep with her cousin j 
at the ‘George/ I can sit up here all night if you will allow me; ; 
but my house is so far from any neighbors, and I don’t believe j 
we could be heard if we screamed ever so!” 

“But,” said Miss Matty, “what has alarmed you so much? j 
Have you seen any men lurking about the house?” 

“Oh, yes!” answered Miss Pole. “Two very bad-looking i 
men have gone three times past the house, very slowly; and an 
Irish beggar-woman came not half an hour ago, and all but 
forced herself in past Betty, saying her children were starving, 
and she must speak to the mistress. You see, she said ‘ mistress/ 
though there was a hat hanging up in the hall, and it would have 
been more natural to have said ‘master.’ But Betty shut the 
door in her face, and came up to me, and we got the spoons to- 
gether, and sat in the parlor window watching till we saw 
Thomas Jones going from his work, when we called to him and 
asked him to take care of us into the town.” 

We might have triumphed over Miss Pole, who had professed 
such bravery until she was frightened; but we were too glad to 
perceive that she shared in the weaknesses of humanity to exult 
over her; and I gave up my room to her very willingly, and 
shared Miss Matty’s bed for the night. But before we retired, 
the two ladies rummaged up, out of the recesses of their memory, 
such horrid stories of robbery and murder that I quite quaked 
in my shoes. Miss Pole was evidently anxious to prove that 
such terrible events had occurred within her experience that she 
was justified in her sudden panic; and Miss Matty did not like 
to be outdone, and capped every story with one yet more hor- 
rible, till it reminded me, oddly enough, of an old story I had 
read somewhere, of a nightingale and a musician, who strove 
one against the other which could produce the most admirable 
music, till poor Philomel dropped down dead. 

One of the stories that haunted me for a long time afterward 
was of a girl who was left in charge of a great house in Cumber- 
land on some particular fair-day, when the other servants all 
went off to the gayeties. The family were away in London, and 
a pedler came by, and asked to leave his large and heavy pack 


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in the kitchen, saying he would call for it again at night; and 
the girl (a gamekeeper’s daughter), roaming about in search of 
amusement, chanced to hit upon a gun hanging up in the hall, 
and took it down to look at the chasing; and it went off through 
the open kitchen door, hit the pack, and a slow dark thread of 
blood came oozing out. (How Miss Pole enjoyed this part of 
the story, dwelling on each word as if she loved it!) She rather 
hurried over the further account of the girl’s bravery, and I have 
but a confused idea that, somehow, she baffled the robbers with 
Italian irons heated red hot, and then restored to blackness by 
being dipped in grease. 

We parted for the night with an awe-stricken wonder as to 
what we should hear of in the morning — and, on my part, with 
a vehement desire for the night to be over and gone: I was so 
afraid lest the robbers should have seen, from some dark lurking- 
place, that Miss Pole had carried off her plate, and thus have a 
double motive for attacking our house. 

But until Lady Glenmire came to call next day we heard of 
nothing unusual. The kitchen fire-irons were in exactly the 
same position against the back door as when Martha and I had 
skilfully piled them up, like spillikins, ready to fall with an awful 
clatter if only a cat had touched the outside panels. I had won- 
dered what we should all do if thus awakened and alarmed, and 
had proposed to Miss Matty that we should cover up our faces 
under the bedclothes, so that there should be no danger of the 
robbers thinking that we could identify them; but Miss Matty, 
who was trembling very much, scouted this idea, and said we 
owed it to society to apprehend them, and that she should cer- 
tainly do her best to lay hold of them and lock them up in the 
garret till morning. 

When Lady Glenmire came, we almost felt jealous of her. 
Mrs. Jamieson’s house had really been attacked; at least there 
were men’s footsteps to be seen on the flower borders, under- 
neath the kitchen windows, “where nae men should be”; and 
Carlo had barked all through the night as if strangers were 
abroad. Mrs. Jamieson had been awakened by Lady Glenmire, 
and they had rung the bell which communicated with Mr. 
Mulliner’s room in the third story, and when his nightcapped 


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head had appeared over the banisters, in answer to the sum- 
mons, they had told him of their alarm, and the reasons for it; 
whereupon he retreated into his bedroom, and locked the door 
(for fear of draughts, as he informed them in the morning), and 
5 ' opened the window, and called out valiantly to say, if the sup- 
posed robbers would come to him he would fight them; but, as 
Lady Glenmire observed, that was but poor comfort, since 
they would have to pass by Mrs. Jamieson’s room and her own 
before they could reach him, and must be of a very pugnacious 
10 disposition indeed if they neglected the opportunities of robbery 
presented by the unguarded lower stories, to go up to a garret, 
and there force a door in order to get at the champion of the 
house. Lady Glenmire, after waiting and listening for some 
time in the drawing-room, had proposed to Mrs. Jamieson that 
15 they should go to bed; but that lady said she should not feel 
comfortable unless she sat up and watched; and, accordingly, 
she packed herself warmly up on the sofa, where she was found 
by the housemaid, when she came into the room at six o’clock, 
fast asleep; but Lady Glenmire went to bed, and kept awake all 
20 night. 

When Miss Pole heard of this, she nodded her head in great 
satisfaction. She had been sure she should hear of something 
happening in Cranford that night; and we had heard. It was 
clear enough they had first proposed to attack her house; but 
25 when they saw that she and Betty were on their guard, and had 
carried off the plate, they had changed their tactics’ and gone to 
Mrs. Jamieson’s, and no one knew what might have happened 
if Carlo had not barked, like a good dog as he was! 

Poor Carlo! his barking days were nearly over. Whether the 
30 gang who infested the neighborhood were afraid of him, or 
whether they were revengeful enough, for the way in which he 
had baffled them on the night in question, to poison him; or 
whether, as some among the more uneducated people thought, 
he died of apoplexy, brought on by too much feeding and too 
35 little exercise; at any rate, it is certain that, two days after this 
eventful night, Carlo was found dead, with his poor little legs 
stretched out stiff in the attitude of running, as if by such un- 
usual exertion he could escape the sure pursuer, Death. 


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We were all sorry for Carlo, the old familiar friend who had 
snapped at us for so many years; and the mysterious mode of 
his death made us very uncomfortable. Could Signor Brunoni 
be at the bottom of this? He had apparently killed a canary 
with only a word of command; his will seemed of deadly force; 
who knew but what he might yet be lingering in the neighbor- 
hood willing all sorts of awful things! 

We whispered these fancies among ourselves in the evenings; 
but in the mornings our courage came back with the daylight, 
and in a week’s time we had got over the shock of Carlo’s death; 
all but Mrs. Jamieson. She, poor thing, felt it as she had felt 
no event since her husband’s death; indeed Miss Pole said, that 
as the Honorable Mr. Jamieson drank a good deal, and occa- 
sioned her much uneasiness, it was possible that Carlo’s death 
might be the greater affliction. But there was always a tinge of 
cynicism in Miss Pole’s remarks. However, one thing was clear 
and certain — it was necessary for Mrs. Jamieson to have some 
change of* scene; and Mr. Mulliner was very impressive on this 
point, shaking his head whenever we inquired after his njistress, 
and speaking of her loss of appetite and bad nights very omi- 
nously; and with justice, too, for if she had two characteristics in 
her natural state of health they were a facility of eating and 
sleeping. If she could neither eat nor sleep, she must be indeed 
out of spirits and out of health. 

Lady Glenmire (who had evidently taken very kindly to Cran- 
ford) did not like the idea of Mrs. Jamieson’s going to Chel- 
tenham, and more than once insinuated pretty plainly that it 
was Mr. Mulliner’s doing, who had been much alarmed on the 
occasion of the house being attacked, and since had said, more 
than once, that he felt it a very responsible charge to have to 
defend so many women. Be that as it might, Mrs. Jamieson 
went to Cheltenham, escorted by Mr. Mulliner; and Lady Glen- 
mire remained in possession of the house, her ostensible office 
being to take care that the maid-servants did not pick up fol- 
lowers. She made a very pleasant-looking dragon; and, as soon 
as it was arranged for her stay in Cranford, she found out that 
Mrs. Jamieson’s visit to Cheltenham was just the best thing in 
the world. She had let her house in Edinburgh, and was for the 


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head had appeared over the banisters, in answer to the sum- 
mons, they had told him of their alarm, and the reasons for it; 
whereupon he retreated into his bedroom, and locked the door 
(for fear of draughts, as he informed them in the morning), and 
5 * opened the window, and called out valiantly to say, if the sup- 
posed robbers would come to him he would fight them; but, as 
Lady Glenmire observed, that was but poor comfort, since 
they would have to pass by Mrs. Jamieson’s room and her own 
before they could reach him, and must be of a very pugnacious 
10 disposition indeed if they neglected the opportunities of robbery 
presented by the unguarded lower stories, to go up to a garret, 
and there force a door in order to get at the champion of the 
house. Lady Glenmire, after waiting and listening for some 
time in the drawing-room, had proposed to Mrs. Jamieson that 
15 they should go to bed; but that lady said she should not feel 
comfortable unless she sat up and watched; and, accordingly, 
she packed herself warmly up on the sofa, where she was found 
by the housemaid, when she came into the room at six o’clock, 
fast asleep; but Lady Glenmire went to bed, and kept awake all 
20 night. 

When Miss Pole heard of this, she nodded her head in great 
satisfaction. She had been sure she should hear of something 
happening in Cranford that night; and we had heard. It was 
clear enough they had first proposed to attack her house; but 
25 when they saw that she and Betty were on their guard, and had 
carried off the plate, they had changed their tactics and gone to 
Mrs. Jamieson’s, and no one knew what might have happened 
if Carlo had not barked, like a good dog as he was! 

Poor Carlo! his barking days were nearly over. Whether the 
30 gang who infested the neighborhood were afraid of him, or 
whether they were revengeful enough, for the way in which he 
had baffled them on the night in question, to poison him; or 
whether, as some among the more uneducated people thought, 
he died of apoplexy, brought on by too much feeding and too 
35 little exercise; at any rate, it is certain that, two days after this 
eventful night, Carlo was found dead, with his poor little legs 
stretched out stiff in the attitude of running, as if by such un- 
usual exertion he could escape the sure pursuer, Death. 


THE PANIC 


105 


We were all sorry for Carlo, the old familiar friend who had 
snapped at us for so many years; and the mysterious mode of 
his death made us very uncomfortable. Could Signor Brunoni 
be at the bottom of this? He had apparently killed a canary 
with only a word of command; his will seemed of deadly force; 
who knew but what he might yet be lingering in the neighbor- 
hood willing all sorts of awful things! 

We whispered these fancies among ourselves in the evenings; 
but in the mornings our courage came back with the daylight, 
and in a week’s time we had got over the shock of Carlo’s death; 
all but Mrs. Jamieson. She, poor thing, felt it as she had felt 
no event since her husband’s death; indeed Miss Pole said, that 
as the Honorable Mr. Jamieson drank a good deal, and occa- 
sioned her much uneasiness, it was possible that Carlo’s death 
might be the greater affliction. But there was always a tinge of 
cynicism in Miss Pole’s remarks. However, one thing was clear 
and certain — it was necessary for Mrs. Jamieson to have some 
change of' scene; and Mr. Mulliner was very impressive on this 
point, shaking his head whenever we inquired after his distress, 
and speaking of her loss of appetite and bad nights very omi- 
nously; and with justice, too, for if she had two characteristics in 
her natural state of health they were a facility of eating and 
sleeping. If she could neither eat nor sleep, she must be indeed 
out of spirits and out of health. 

Lady Glenmire (who had evidently taken very kindly to Cran- 
ford) did not like the idea of Mrs. Jamieson’s going to Chel- 
tenham, and more than once insinuated pretty plainly that it 
was Mr. Mulliner’s doing, who had been much alarmed on the 
occasion of the house being attacked, and since had said, more 
than once, that he felt it a very responsible charge to have to 
defend so many women. Be that as it might, Mrs. Jamieson 
went to Cheltenham, escorted by Mr. Mulliner; and Lady Glen- 
mire remained in possession of the house, her ostensible office 
being to take care that the maid-servants did not pick up fol- 
lowers. She made a very pleasant-looking dragon; and, as soon 
as it was arranged for her stay in Cranford, she found out that 
Mrs. Jamieson’s visit to Cheltenham was just the best thing in 
the world. She had let her house in Edinburgh, and was for the 


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time houseless, so the charge of her sister-in-law’s comfortable 
abode was very convenient and acceptable. 

Miss Pole was very much inclined to install herself as a heroine, 
because of the decided steps she had taken in flying from the 
5 two men and one woman, whom she entitled “that murderous 
gang.” She described their appearance in glowing colors, and I 
noticed that every time she went over the story some fresh trait of 
villany was added to their appearance. One was tall — he grew 
to be gigantic in height before we had done with him; he of 
10 course had black hair — and by and by it hung in elf locks over 
his forehead and down his back. The other was short and 
broad — and a hump sprouted out on his shoulder before we 
heard the last of him; he had red hair — which deepened into car- 
roty; and she was almost sure he had a cast in the eye — a de- 
15 cided squint. As for the woman, her eyes glared, and she was 
masculine-looking — a perfect virago; most probably a man 
dressed in woman’s clothes: afterward, we heard of a beard on 
her chin, and a manly voice and a stride. 

If Miss Pole was delighted to recount the events of that after- 
20 noon to all inquirers, others were not so proud of their adven- 
tures in the robbery line. Mr. Hoggins, the surgeon, had been 
attacked at his own door by two ruffians, who were concealed in 
the shadow of the porch, and so effectually silenced him that he 
was robbed in the interval between ringing his bell and the ser- 
25 vant’s answering it. Miss Pole was sure it would turn out that 
this robbery had been committed by “her men,” and went the 
very day she heard the report to have her teeth examined, and 
to question Mr. Hoggins. She came to us afterward; so we 
heard what she had heard, straight and direct from the source, 
30 while we were yet in the excitement and flutter of the agitation 
caused by the first intelligence; for the event had only occurred 
the night before. 

“Well!” said Miss Pole, sitting down with the decision of a 
person who has made up her mind as to the nature of life and 
35 the world (and such people never tread lightly, or seat them- 
selves without a bump); “well, Miss Matty! men will be men. 
Every mother’s son of them wishes to be considered Samson and 
Solomon rolled into one — too strong ever to be beaten or dis- 


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comfited — too wise ever to be outwitted. If you will notice, they 
have always foreseen events, though they never tell one for one’s 
warning before the events happen. My father was a man, and 
I know the sex pretty well.” 

She had talked herself out of breath, and we should have been 
very glad to fill up the necessary pause as chorus, but we did not 
exactly know what to say, or which man had suggested this dia- 
tribe against the sex; so we only joined in generally, with a grave 
shake of the head, and a soft murmur of “They are very incom- 
prehensible, certainly 1 ” 

“Now, only think,” said she. “There, I have undergone the 
risk of having one of my remaining teeth drawn (for one is ter- 
ribly at the mercy of any surgeon-dentist; and I, for one, always 
speak them fair till I have got my mouth out of their clutches), 
and, after all, Mr. Hoggins is too much of a man to own that he 
was robbed last night.” 

“Not robbed!” exclaimed the chorus. 

“Don’t tell me!” Miss Pole exclaimed, angry that we could be 
for a moment imposed upon. “ I believe he was robbed, just as 
Betty told me, and he is ashamed to own it; and, to be sure, it 
was very silly of him to be robbed just at his own door; I dare say 
he feels that such a thing won’t raise him in the eyes of Cranford 
society, and is anxious to conceal it — but he need not have tried 
to impose upon me, by saying I must have heard an exaggerated 
account of some petty theft of a neck of mutton, which, it seems, 
was stolen out of the safe in his yard last week; he had the imper- 
tinence to add, he believed that that was taken by the cat. I 
have no doubt, if I could get at the bottom of it, it was that 
Irishman dressed up in woman’s clothes, who came spying about 
my house, with the story about the starving children.” 

After we had duly condemned the want of candor which Mr. 
Hoggins had evinced, and abused men in general, taking him for 
the representative and type, we got round to the subject about 
which we had been talking when Miss Pole came in; namely, how 
far, in the present disturbed state of the country, we could vent- 
ure to accept an invitation which Miss Matty had just received 
from Mrs. Forrester, to come as usual and keep the anniversary 
of her wedding day by drinking tea with her at five o’clock, and 


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playing a quiet pool afterward. Mrs. Forrester had said that 
she asked us with some diffidence, because the roads were, she 
feared, very unsafe. But she suggested that perhaps one of us 
would not object to take the sedan, and that the others, by walk- 
ing briskly, might keep up with the long trot of the chairmen, 
and so we might all arrive safely at Over Place, a suburb of the 
town. (No; that is too large an expression: a small cluster of 
houses separated from Cranford by about two hundred yards of 
a dark and lonely lane.) There was no doubt but that a similar 
note was awaiting Miss Pole at home; so her call was a very 
fortunate affair, as it enabled us to consult together. . . . We 
would all much rather have declined this invitation; but we felt 
that it would not be quite kind to Mrs. Forrester, who would 
otherwise be left to a solitary retrospect of her not very happy or 
fortunate life. Miss Matty and Miss Pole had been visitors on 
this occasion for many years, and now they gallantly determined 
to nail their colors to the mast, and to go through Darkness- 
lane rather than fail in loyalty to their friend. 

But when the evening came, Miss Matty (for it was she who 
was voted into the chair, as she had a cold), before being shut 
down in the sedan, like jack-in-a-box, implored the chairman, 
whatever might befall, not to run away and leave her fastened up 
there, to be murdered; and even after they had promised, I saw 
her tighten her features into the stern determination of a martyr, 
and she gave me a melancholy and ominous shake of the head 
through the glass. However, we got there safely, only rather 
out of breath, for it was who could trot hardest through Dark- 
ness-lane, and I am afraid poor Miss Matty was sadly jolted. 

Mrs. Forrester had made extra preparations, in acknowledg- . 
ment of our exertion in coming to see her through such dangers. 
The usual forms of genteel ignorance as to what her servants 
might send up were all gone through; and harmony and Prefer- 
ence seemed likely to be the order of the evening, but for an in- 
teresting conversation that began I don’t know how, but which 
had relation, of course, to the robbers who infested the neighbor- 
hood of Cranford. 

Having braved the dangers of Darkness-lane, and thus hav- 
ing a little stock of reputation for courage to fall back upon; and 


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109 


also, I dare say, desirous of proving ourselves superior to men 
{videlicet Mr. Hoggins) in the article of candor, we began to re- 
late our individual fears, and the private precautions we each of 
us took. I owned that my pet apprehension was eyes — eyes 
looking at me, and watching me, glittering out from some dull, 
flat, wooden surface; and that if I dared to go up to my looking- 
glass when I was panic-stricken, I should certainly turn it round, 
with its back toward me, for fear of seeing eyes behind me look- 
ing out of the darkness. I saw Miss Matty nerving herself up 
for a confession; and at last out it came. She owned that, ever 
since she had been a girl, she had dreaded being caught by her 
last leg, just as she was 'getting into bed, by some one concealed 
under it. She said, when she was younger and more active she 
used to take a flying leap from a distance, and so bring both her 
legs up safely into bed at once; but that this had always annoyed 
Deborah, who piqued herself upon getting into bed gracefully, 
and she had given it up in consequence. But now the old terror 
would often come over her, especially since Miss Pole’s house 
had been attacked (we had got quite to believe in the fact of the 
attack having taken place), and yet it was very unpleasant to 
think of looking under a bed, and seeing a man concealed, with a 
great, fierce face staring out at you; so she had bethought herself 
of something — perhaps I had noticed that she had told Martha 
to buy her a penny ball, such as children play with — and now she 
rolled this ball under the bed every night: if it came out on the 
other side, well and good; if not she always took care to have her 
hand on the bell-rope, and meant to call out John and Harry, 
just as if she expected men-servants to answer her ring. 

We all applauded this ingenious contrivance, and Miss Matty 
sank back into satisfied silence, with a look at Mrs. Forrester as 
if to ask for her private weakness. 

Mrs. Forrester looked askance at Miss Pole, and tried to 
change the subject a little by telling us that she had borrowed a 
boy from one of the neighboring cottages and promised his 
parents a hundredweight of coals at Christmas, and his supper 
every evening, for the loan of him at nights. She had instructed 
him in his possible duties when he first came; and, finding him 
sensible, she had given him the Major’s sword (the Major was 


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her late husband), and desired him to put it very carefully behind 
his pillow at night, turning the edge toward the head of the 
pillow. He was a sharp lad, she was sure; for, spying out the 
Major’s cocked hat, he had said, if he might have that to wear, 
5 he was sure he could frighten two Englishmen, or four French- 
men, any day. But she had impressed upon him anew that he 
was to lose no time in putting on hats or anything else; but, if he 
heard any noise, he was to run at it with his drawn sword. 
On my suggesting that some accident might occur from such 
10 slaughterous and indiscriminate directions, and that he might 
rush on Jepny getting up to wash, and have spitted her before 
he had discovered that she was not a Frenchman, Mrs. Forrester 
said she did not think that that was very likely, for he was a very 
sound sleeper, and generally had to be well shaken or cold- 
15 pigged in a morning before they could rouse him. She some- 
times thought such dead sleep must be owing to the hearty sup- 
pers the poor lad ate, for he was half-starved at home, and she 
told Jenny to see that he got a good meal at night. 

Still this was no confession of Mrs. Forrester’s peculiar 
20 timidity, and we urged her to tell us what she thought would 
frighten her more than anything. She paused, and stirred the 
fire, and snuffed the candles, and then she said, in a sounding 
whisper: 

“Ghosts!” 

25 She looked at Miss Pole, as much as to say she had declared it, 
and would stand by it. Such a look was a challenge in itself. 
Miss Pole came down upon her with indigestion, spectral illu- 
sions, optical delusions, and a great deal out of Dr. Ferrier and 
Dr. Hibbert besides. Miss Matty had rather a leaning to 
30 ghosts, as I have mentioned before, and what little she did say 
was all on Mrs. Forrester’s side, who, emboldened by sympathy, 
protested that ghosts were a part of her religion; that surely she, 
the widow of a Major in the army, knew what to be frightened at, 
and what not; in short, I never saw Mrs. Forrester so warm 
35 either before or since, for she was a gentle, meek, enduring old 
lady in most things. Not all the elder wine that ever was mulled 
could this night wash out the remembrance of this difference be- 
tween Miss Pole and her hostess. Indeed, when the elder wine 


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was brought in, it gave rise to a new burst of discussion; for 
Jenny, the little maiden who staggered under the tray, had to 
give evidence of having seen a ghost with her own eyes, not so 
many nights ago, in Darkness-lane, the very lane we were to go 
through on our way home. 

In spite of the uncomfortable feeling which this last con- 
sideration gave me, I could not help being amused at Jenny’s 
position, which was exceedingly like that of a witness being ex- 
amined and cross-examined by two counsel who are not at -all * 
scrupulous about asking leading questions. The conclusion I 
arrived at was, that Jenny had certainly seen something beyond 
what a fit of indigestion would have caused. A lady all in white, 
and without her head, was what she deposed and adhered to, 
supported by a consciousness of the secret sympathy of her mis- 
tress under the withering scorn with which Miss Pole regarded 
her. And not only she, but many others, had seen this headless 
lady, who sat by the roadside wringing her hands as in deep 
grief. Mrs. Forrester looked at us from time to time with an air 
of conscious triumph; but then she had not to pass through 
Darkness-lane before she could bury herself beneath her own 
familiar bedclothes. 

We preserved a discreet silence as to the headless lady while 
we were putting on our things to go home, for there was no 
knowing how near the ghostly head and ears might be, or what 
spiritual connection they might be keeping up with the unhappy 
body in Darkness-lane; and, therefore, even Miss Pole felt that 
it was as well not to speak lightly on such subjects, for fear of 
vexing or insulting that woe-begone trunk. At least, so I con- 
jecture; for, instead of the busy clatter usual in the operation, we 
tied on our cloaks as sadly as mutes at a funeral. Miss Matty 
drew the curtains round the windows of the chair to shut out dis- 
agreeable sights, and the men (either because they were in spirits 
that their labors were so nearly ended, or because they were 
going downhill) set off at such a round and merry pace that it 
was all Miss Pole and I could do to keep up with them. She had 
breath for nothing beyond an imploring “Don’t leave me!” 
uttered as she clutched my arm so tightly that I could not have 
quitted her, ghost or no ghost. What a relief it was when the 


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men, weary of their burden and their quick trot, stopped just 
where Headingley-causeway branches off from Darkness-lane! 
Miss Pole unloosed me and caught at one of the men: 

“Could not you — could not you take Miss Matty round by 
5 Headingley-causeway ? — the pavement in Darkness-lane jolts so, 
and she is not very strong.” 

A smothered voice was heard from the inside of the chair: 

“ Oh ! pray go on ! What is the matter ? What is the matter ? 

* I will give you sixpence more to go on very fast; pray don’t stop 
.10 here.” 

“And I’ll give you a shilling,” said Miss Pole, with tremulous 
dignity, “if you’ll go by Headingley-causeway.” 

The two men grunted acquiescence and took up the chair, and 
went along the causeway, which certainly answered Miss Pole’s 
15 kind purpose of saving Miss Matty’s bones; for it was covered 
with soft, thick mud, and even a fall there would have been easy 
till the getting up came, when there might have been some diffi- 
culty in extrication. 

CHAPTER XI 

SAMUEL BROWN 

The next morning I met Lady Glenmire and Miss Pole setting 
20 out on a long walk to find some old woman who was famous in 
the neighborhood for her skill in knitting woollen stockings. 
Miss Pole said to me, with a smile half kindly and half con- 
temptuous upon her countenance, “ I have just been telling Lady 
Glenmire of our poor friend Mrs. Forrester, and her terror of 
25 ghosts. It comes from living so much alone, and listening to the 
bugaboo stories of that Jenny of hers.” She was so calm and 
so much above superstitious fears herself that I was almost 
ashamed to say how glad I had been of her Headingley-causeway 
proposition the night before, and turned off the conversation to 
30 something else. 

In the afternoon Miss Pole called on Miss Matty to tell her of 
the adventure — the real adventure they had met with on their 
morning’s walk. They had been perplexed about the exact path 


SAMUEL BROWN 


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which they were to take across the fields in order to find the 
knitting old woman, and had stopped to inquire at a little way- 
side public-house, standing on the highroad to London, about 
three miles from Cranford. The good woman had asked them 
to sit down and rest themselves while she fetched her husband, 5 
who could direct them better than she could; and, while they 
were sitting in the sanded parlor, a little girl came in. They 
thought that she belonged to the landlady, and began some 
trifling conversation with her; but, on Mrs. Roberts’s return, she 
told them that the little thing was the only child of a couple who 10 
were staying in the house. And then she began a long story, out 
of which Lady Glenmire and Miss Pole could only gather one or 
two decided facts, which were that, about six weeks ago, a light 
spring-cart had broken down just before their door, in which 
there were two men, one woman, and this child. One of the 15 
men was seriously hurt — no bones broken, only “shaken,” the 
landlady called it; but he had probably sustained some severe 
internal injury, for he had languished in their house ever since, 
attended by his wife, the mother of this little girl. Miss Pole had 
asked what he was, what he looked like. And Mrs. Roberts had 20 
made answer that he was not like a gentleman, nor yet like a 
common person; if it had not been that he and his wife were such 
decent, quiet people, she could almost have thought he was a 
mountebank or, something of that kind, for they had a great box 
in the cart, full of she did not know. what. She had helped to 25 
unpack it, and take out their linen and clothes, when the other 
man — his twin brother, she believed he was — had gone off with 
the horse and cart. 

Miss Pole had begun to have her suspicions at this point, and 
expressed her idea that it was rather strange that the box and 30 
cart and horse and all should have disappeared; but good Mrs. 
Roberts seemed to have become quite indignant at Miss Pole’s 
implied suggestion ; in fact, Miss Pole said, she was as angry as if 
Miss Pole had told her that she herself was a swindler. As the 
best way of convincing the ladies, she bethought her of begging 35 
them to see the wife; and, as Miss Pole said, there was no doubt- 
ing the honest, worn, bronze face of the woman, who, at the first 
tender word from Lady Glenmire, burst into tears, which she 


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was too weak to check until some word from the landlady made 
her swallow down her sobs, in order that she might testify to the 
Christian kindness shown by Mr. and Mrs. Roberts. Miss Pole 
came round with a swing to as vehement a belief in the sorrowful 
tale as she had been sceptical before; and, as a proof of this, her 
energy in the poor sufferer’s behalf was nothing daunted when 
she found out that he, and no other, was our Signor Brunoni, to 
whom all Cranford had been attributing all manner of evil this 
six weeks past! Yes! his wife said his proper name was Samuel 
Brown — “Sam,” she called him — but to the last we preferred 
calling him “the Signor;” it sounded so much better. 

The end of their conversation with the Signora Brunoni was 
that it was agreed that, he should be placed under medical advice, 
and .for any expense incurred in procuring this Lady Glenmire 
promised to hold herself responsible, and had accordingly gone to 
Mr. Hoggins to beg him to ride over to the “Rising Sun” that 
very afternoon, and examine into the signor’s real state; and, as 
Miss Pole said, if it was desirable to remove him to Cranford to 
be more immediately under Mr. Hoggins’s eye, she would under- 
take to see for lodgings and arrange about the rent. Mrs. 
Roberts had been as kind as could be all throughout, but it was 
evident that their long residence there had been a slight incon- 
venience. 

Before Miss Pole left us, Miss Matty and I were as full of the 
morning’s adventure as she was. We talked about it all the 
evening, turning it in every possible light, and we went to bed 
anxious for the morning, when we should surely hear from some 
one what Mr. Hoggins thought and recommended; for, as Miss 
Matty observed, though Mr. Hoggins did say “Jack’s up,” “a 
fig for his heels,” and called Preference “Pref,” she believed he 
was a very worthy man and a very clever surgeon. Indeed, we 
were rather proud of our doctor at Cranford, as a doctor. We 
often wished, when we heard of Queen Adelaide or the Duke of 
Wellington being ill, that they would send for Mr. Hoggins; but, 
on consideration, we were rather glad they did not, for, if we 
were ailing, what should we do if Mr. Hoggins had been ap- 
pointed physician-in-ordinary to the Royal Family ? As a sur- 
geon we were proud of him ; but as a man— or rather, I should say 


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as a gentleman — we could only shake our heads over his name 
and himself, and wished that he had read Lord Chesterfield’s 
Letters in the days when his manners were susceptible of im- 
provement. Nevertheless, we all regarded his dictum in the 
signor’s case as infallible, and when he said that with care and 
attention he might rally, we had no more fear for him. 

But, although we had no more fear, everybody did as much as 
if there was great cause for anxiety — as indeed there was until 
Mr. Hoggins took charge of him. Miss Pole looked out clean 
and comfortable, if homely, lodgings; Miss Matty sent the sedan- 
chair for him, and Martha and I aired it well before it left Cran- 
ford by holding a warming-pan full of red-hot coals in it, and 
then shutting it up close, smoke and all, until the time when he 
should get into it at the “Rising Sun.” Lady Glenmire under- 
took the medical department under Mr. Hoggins’s directions, 
and rummaged up. all Mrs. Jamieson’s medicine glasses and 
spoons, and bed tables, in a free-and-easy way, that made Miss 
Matty feel a little anxious as to what that lady and Mr. Mulliner 
might say, if they knew. Mrs. Forrester made some of the 
bread-jelly, for which she was so famous, to have ready as a re- 
freshment in the lodgings when he should arrive. A present of 
this bread-jelly was the highest mark of favor dear Mrs. For- 
rester could confer. Miss Pole had once asked her for the re- 
ceipt, but she had met with a very decided rebuff; that lady told 
her that she could not part with it to any one during her life, and 
that after her death it was bequeathed, as her executors would 
find,. to Miss Matty. What Miss Matty, or, as Mrs. Forrester 
called her (remembering the clause in her will and the dignity of 
the occasion), Miss Matilda Jenkyns — might choose to do with 
the receipt when it came into her possession — whether to make 
it public, or to hand it down as an heirloom — she did not know, 
nor would she dictate. And a mould of this admirable, diges- 
tible, unique bread-jelly was sent by Mrs. Forrester to our poor 
sick conjurer. Who says that the aristocracy are proud ? Here 
was a lady, by birth a Tyrrell, and descended from the great Sir 
Walter that shot King Rufus, and in whose veins ran the blood 
of him who murdered the little princes in the Tower, going every 
day to see what dainty dishes she could prepare for Samuel 


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Brown, a mountebank! But, indeed, it was wonderful to see 
what kind feelings were called out by this poor man’s coming 
amongst us. And also wonderful to see how the great Cranford 
panic, which had been occasioned by his first coming in his 
5 Turkish dress, melted away into thin air on his second coming 
— pale and feeble, and with his heavy, filmy eyes, that only 
brightened a very little when they fell upon the countenance of 
his faithful wife, or their pale and sorrowful little girl. 

Somehow we all forgot to be afraid. I dare say it was that 
10 finding out that he, who had first excited our love of the mar- 
vellous by his unprecedented arts, had not sufficient every-day 
gifts to manage a shying horse, made us feel as if we were our- 
selves again. Miss Pole came with her little basket at all hours 
of the evening, as if her lonely house and the unfrequented road 
15 to it had never been infested by that “murderous gang”; Mrs. 
Forrester said she thought that neither Jenny nor she need mind 
the headless lady who wept and wailed in Darkness-lane, for 
surely the power was never given to such beings to harm those 
who went about to try to do what little good was in their power, 
20 to which Jenny tremblingly assented; but the mistress’s theory 
had little effect on the maid’s practice until she had sewn two 
pieces of red flannel in the shape of a cross on her inner garment. 

I found Miss Matty covering her penny ball — the ball that she 
used to roll under her bed — with gay-colored worsted in rainbow 
25 stripes. 

“My dear,” said she, “my heart is sad for that little careworn 
child. Although her father is a conjurer, she looks as if she had 
never had a good game of play in her life. I used to make very 
pretty balls in this way when I was a girl, and I thought I would 
30 try if I could not make this one smart and take it to Phoebe this 
afternoon. I think ‘ the gang’ must have left the neighborhood, 
for one does not hear any more of their violence and robbery 
now.” 

We were all of us far too full of the signor’s precarious state to 
35 talk either about robbers or ghosts. Indeed, Lady Glenmire 
said she never had heard of any actual robberies, except that two 
little boys had stolen some apples from Farmer Benson’s orchard, 
and that some' eggs had been missed on a market-day off widow 


SAMUEL BROWN 


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Hayward’s stall. But that was expecting too much of us; we 
could not acknowledge that we had only had this small founda- 
tion for all our panic. Miss Pole drew herself up at this remark 
of Lady Glenmire’s, and said “ that she wished she could agree 
with her as to the very small reason we had had for alarm, but 
with the recollection of a man disguised as a woman who had 
endeavored to force himself into her house while his confederates 
waited outside; with the knowledge gained from Lady Glenmire 
herselff of the footprints seen on Mrs. Jamieson’s flower borders; 
with the fact before her of the audacious robbery committed on 
Mr. Hoggins at his own door — ” But here Lady Glenmire 
broke in with a very strong expression of doubt as to whether this 
last story was not an entire fabrication founded upon the theft of 
a cat; she grew so red while she was saying all this that I was not 
surprised at Miss Pole’s manner of bridling up, and I am certain, 
if Lady Glenmire had not been “her ladyship,” we should have 
had a more emphatic contradiction than the “Well, to be sure!” 
and similar fragmentary ejaculations, which were all that she 
ventured upon in my lady’s presence. But when she was gone 
Miss Pole began a long congratulation to Miss Matty that so far 
they had escaped marriage, which she noticed always made 
people credulous to the last degree; indeed, she thought it argued 
great natural credulity in a woman if she could not keep herself 
from being married ; and in what Lady Glenmire had said about 
Mr. Hoggins’s robbery we had a specimen of what people came 
to if they gave way to such a weakness; evidently Lady Glenmire 
would swallow anything if she could believe the poor vamped-up 
story about a neck of mutton and a pussy with which he had 
tried to impose on Miss Pole, only she had always been on her 
guard against believing too much of what men said. 

We were thankful, as Miss Pole desired us to be, that we had 
never been married; but I think, of the two, we were even more 
thankful that the robbers had left Cranford; at least I judge so 
from a speech of Miss Matty’s that evening, as we sat over the 
fire, in which she evidently looked upon a husband as a great 
protector against thieves, burglars, and ghosts; and said that she 
did not think that she should dare to be always warning young 
people against matrimony, as Miss Pole did continually; to be 


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sure, marriage was a risk, as she saw, now she had had some ex- 
perience; but she remembered the time when she had looked 
forward to being married as much as any one. 

“Not to any particular person, my dear,” said she, hastily 
5 checking herself up as if she were afraid of having admitted too 
much; “only the old story, you know, of ladies always saying, 
‘ When I marry,’ and gentlemen, ‘7/ I marry.’” It was a joke 
spoken in rather a sad tone, and I doubt if either of us smiled; 
but I could not see Miss Matty’s face by the flickering firelight. 
10 In a little while she continued: 

“But, after all, I have not told you the truth. It is so long 
ago, arid no one ever knew how much I thought of it at the time, 
unless, indeed, my dear mother guessed; but I may say that there 
was a time when I did not think I should have been only Miss 
15 Matty Jenkyns all my life; for even if I did meet with any one 
who wished to marry me now (and, as Miss Pole says, one is 
never too safe), I could not take him — I hope he would not take 
it too much to heart, but I could not take him— or any one but the 
person I once thought I should be married to; and he is dead and 
20 gone, and he never knew how it all came about that I said ‘No,’ 
when I had thought many and many a time — Well, it’s no 
matter what I thought. God ordains it all, and I am very happy, 
my dear. No one has such kind friends as I,” continued she, 
taking my hand and holding it in hers. 

25 If I had never known of Mr. Holbrook, I could have said 
something in this pause, but as I had, I could not think of any- 
thing that would come in naturally, and so we both kept silence 
for a little time. 

“My father once made us,” she began, “keep a diary, in two 
30 columns; on one side we were to put down in the morning what 
we thought would be the course and events of the coming day, 
and at night we were to put down on the other side what really 
had happened. It would be to some people rather a sad way of 
telling their lives” (a tear dropped upon my hand at these words) 
35 — “ I don’t mean that mine has been sad, only so very different 
to what I expected. I remember, one winter’s evening, sitting 
over our bedroom fire with Deborah — I remember it as if it 
were yesterday — and we were planning our future lives, both of 


SAMUEL BROWN 


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us were planning, though only she talked about it. She said she 
should like to marry an archdeacon, and write his charges; and 
you know, my dear, she never was married, and, for aught I 
know, she never spoke to an unmarried archdeacon in her life. 
I never was ambitious, nor could I have written charges, but I 
thought I could manage a house (my mother used to call me her 
right hand), and I was always so fond of little children — the 
shyest babies would stretch out their little arms to come to me; 
when I was a girl, I was half my leisure time nursing in the 
neighboring cottages; but I don’t know how it was, when I grew 
sad and grave — which I did a year or two after this time — the 
little things drew back from me, and I am afraid I lost the knack, 
though I am just as fond of children as ever, and have a strange 
yearning at my heart whenever I see a mother with her baby in 
her arms. Nay, my dear” (and by a sudden blaze which sprang 
up from a fall of the unstirred coals, I saw that her eyes were full 
of tears — gazing intently on some vision of what might have 
been), “do you know, I dream sometimes that I have a little 
child — always the same — a little girl of about two years old; she 
never grows older, though I have dreamed about her for many 
years. I don’t think I ever dream of any words or sound she 
makes; she is very noiseless and still, but she comes to me when 
she is very sorry or very glad, and I have wakened with the clasp 
of her dear little arms round my neck. Only last night — per- 
haps because I had gone to sleep thinking of this ball for Phoebe 
— my little darling came in my dream, and put up her mouth to 
be kissed, just as I have seen real babies do to real mothers 
before going to bed. But all this is nonsense, dear! only don’t 
be frightened by Miss Pole from being married. I can fancy it 
may be a very happy state, and a little credulity helps one on 
through life very smoothly — better than always doubting and 
doubting and seeing difficulties and disagreeables in every- 
thing.” 

If I had been inclined to be daunted from matrimony, it would 
not have been Miss Pole to do it; it would have been the lot of 
poor Signor Brunoni and his wife. And yet again, it was an en- 
couragement to see how, through all their cares and sorrows, they 
thought of each other and not of themselves; and how keen were 


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their joys, if they only passed through each other, or through the 
little Phoebe. 

The signora told me, one day, a good deal about their lives up 
to this period. It began by my asking her whether Miss Pole’s 
5 story of the twin brothers was true; it sounded so wonderful a 
likeness, that I should have had my doubts, if Miss Pole had not 
been unmarried. But the signora, or (as we found out she pre- 
ferred to be called) Mrs. Brown, said it was quite true; that her 
brother-in-law was by many taken for her husband, which was 
10 of great assistance to them in their profession; “though,” she 
continued, “ how people can mistake Thomas for the real Signor 
Brunoni, I can’t conceive; but he says they do; so I suppose I 
must believe him. Not but what he is a very good man; I am 
sure I don’t know how we should have paid our bill at the ‘ Rising 
15 Sun’ but for the money he sends; but people must know very 
little about art if they can take him for my husband. Why, miss, 
in the ball trick, where my husband spreads his fingers wide, and 
throws out his little finger with quite an air and a grace, Thomas 
just clumps up his hand like a fist, and might have ever so many 
20 balls hidden in it. Besides, he has never been in India, and 
knows nothing of the proper sit of a turban.” 

“Have you been in India?” said I, rather astonished. 

“Oh, yes! many a year, ma’am. Sam was a sergeant in the 
31st; and when the regiment was ordered to India, I drew a lot to 
25 go,. and I was more thankful than I can tell; for it seemed as if it 
would only be a slow death to me to part from my husband. But 
indeed, ma’am, if I had known all, I don’t know whether I would 
not rather have died there and then than gone through what I 
have done since. To be sure, I’ve been able to comfort Sam, 
30 and to be with him; but, ma’am, I’ve lost six children,” said she, 
looking up at me with those strange eyes that I’ve never noticed 
but in mothers of dead children— with a kind of wild look in them, 
as if seeking for what they never more might find. “Yes! Six 
children died off, like little buds nipped untimely, in that cruel 
35 India. I thought as each died, I never could — I never would — 
love a child again; and when the next came, it had not only its 
own love, but the deeper love that came from the thoughts of its 
little dead brothers and sisters. And when Phoebe was coming, 


SAMUEL BROWN 


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I said to my husband, ‘Sam, when the child is bom, and I am 
strong, I shall leave you; it will cut my heart cruel; but if this 
baby dies too, I shall go mad; the madness is in me now; but if 
you let me go down to Calcutta, carrying my baby step by step, 
it will, maybe, work itself off ; and I will save, and I will hoard, 
and I will beg— and I will die, to get a passage home to England, 
where our baby may live. ’ God bless him! he said I might go; 
and he saved up his pay, and I saved every pice I could get for. 
washing or any way; and when Phoebe came, and I grew strong 
again, I set off. It was very lonely; through the thick forests, 
dark again with their heavy trees — along by the river’s side (but 
I had been brought up near the Avon in Warwickshire, so that 
flowing noise sounded like home) — from station to station, from 
Indian village to village, I went along, carrying my child. I had 
seen one of the officers’ ladies with a little picture, ma’am — done 
by a Catholic foreigner, ma’am — of the Virgin and the little 
Saviour, ma’am. She had him on her arm, and her form was 
softly curled round him, and their cheeks touched. Well, when 
I went to bid good-by to this lady, for whom I had washed, she 
cried sadly; for she, too, had lost her children, but she had not 
another to save, like me; and I was bold enough to ask her, 
would she give me that print. And she cried the more, and said 
her children were with that little blessed Jesus; and gave it me, 
and told me she had heard it had been painted on the bottom 
of a cask, which made it have that round shape. And when my 
body was very weary, and my heart was sick (for there were times 
when I misdoubted if I could ever reach my home, and there were 
times when I thought of my husband, and one time when I 
thought my baby was dying), I took out that picture and looked 
at it, till I could have thought the mother spoke to me, and com- 
forted me. And the natives were very kind. We could not 
understand one another; but they saw my baby on my breast, 
and they came out to me, and brought me rice and milk, and 
sometimes flowers — I have got some of the flowers dried. Then, 
the next morning, I was so tired; and they wanted me to stay 
with them — I could tell that— and tried to frighten me from 
going into the deep woods, which, indeed, looked very strange 
and dark; but it seemed to me as if Death was following me to 


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* take my baby away from me; and as if I must go on, and on — 
and I thought how God had cared for mothers ever since the 
world was made, and would care for me; so I bade them good- 
by, and set off afresh. And once when my baby was ill, and 
5 both she and I needed rest, He led me to a place where I found 
a kind Englishman lived, right in the midst of the natives.” 

“And you reached Calcutta safely at last?” 

“Yes, safely. Oh! when I knew I had only two days’ journey 
’more before me, I could not help it, ma’am— it might be idolatry, 
10 I cannot tell — but I was near one of the native temples, and I 
went in it with my baby to thank God for his great mercy; for it 
seemed to me that where others had prayed before to their God, 
in their joy or in their agony, was of itself a sacred place. And I 
got as servant to an invalid lady, who grew quite fond of my 
15 baby aboard ship; and, in two years’ time, Sam earned his dis- 
charge, and came home to me, and to our child. Then he had 
to fix on a trade; but he knew of none; and once, once upon a 
time, he had learned some tricks from an Indian juggler; so he set 
up conjuring, and it answered so well that he took Thomas to 
20 help 'him — as his man, you know, not as another conjurer, 
though Thomas has set it up now on his own hook. But it has 
been a great help to us that likeness between the twins, and made 
a good many tricks go off well that they made up together. And 
Thomas is a good brother, only he has not the fine carriage of my 
25 husband, so that I can’t think how he can be taken for Signor 
Brunoni himself, as he says he is.” 

“Poor little Phoebe 1” said I, my thoughts going back to the 
baby she carried all those hundred miles. 

“Ah! you may say so! I never thought I should have reared 
30 her, though, when she fell ill at Chunderabaddad ; but that good 
kind Aga Jenkyns took us in, which I believe was the very saving 
of her.” 

“Jenkyns!” said I. 

“ Yes, Jenkyns. I shall think all people of that name are 
35 kind; for here is that nice old lady who comes every day to take 
Phoebe a walk!” 

But an idea had flashed through my head: could the Aga 
Jenkyns be the lost Peter ? True, he was reported by many to be 


ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED 


123 


dead. But, equally true, some had said that he had arrived at 
the dignity of Great Lama of Thibet. Miss Matty thought he 
was alive. I would make further inquiry. 

CHAPTER XII 

ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED 

Was the “poor Peter” of Cranford the Aga Jenkyns of Chun- 
derabaddad, or was he not? As somebody says, that was the 
question. 

In my own home, whenever people had nothing else to do, they 
blamed me for want of discretion. Indiscretion was my bug- 
bear fault. Everybody has a bugbear fault; a sort of standing 
characteristic — a piece de resistance for their friends to cut at; and 
in general they cut and come again. I was tired of being called 
indiscreet and incautious; and I determined for once to prove 
myself a model of prudence and wisdom. I would not even hint 
my suspicions respecting the Aga. I would collect evidence and 
carry it home to lay before my father, as the family friend of the 
two Miss Jenkynses. 

In my search after facts, I was often reminded of a description 
my father had once given of a Ladies’ Committee that he had had 
to preside over. He said he could not help thinking of a passage 
in Dickens, which spoke of a chorus in which every man took the 
tune he knew best, and sang it to his own satisfaction. So, at 
this charitable committee, every lady took the subject uppermost 
in her mind, and talked about it to her own great contentment, 
but not much to the advancement of the subject they had met to 
discuss. But even that committee could have been nothing to 
the Cranford ladies when I attempted to gain some clear and 
definite information as to poor Peter’s height, appearance, and 
when and where he was seen and heard of last. For instance, I 
remember asking Miss Pole (and I thought the question was very 
opportune, for I put it when I met her at a call at Mrs. Forrester’s, 
and both the ladies had known Peter, and I imagined that they 
might refresh each other’s memories) — I asked Miss Pole what 
was the very last thing they had ever heard about him; and then 


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she named the absurd report to which I have alluded, about his 
having been elected Great Lama of Thibet; and this was a signal 
for each lady to go off on her separate idea. Mrs. Forrester’s 
start was made on the veiled prophet in “Lalla Rookh,”— whether 
5 I thought he was meant for the Great Lama, though Peter was 
not so ugly, indeed rather handsome, if he had not been freckled. 
I was thankful to see her double upon Peter; but, in a moment, 
the delusive lady was off upon Rowland’s Kalydor, and the 
merits of cosmetics and hair oils in general, and holding forth so 
10 fluently that I turned to listen to Miss Pole, who (through the 
llamas, the beasts of burden) had got to Peruvian bonds, and the 
share market, and her poor opinion of joint-stock banks in gen- 
eral, and of that one in particular in which Miss Matty’s money 
was invested. In vain I put in “ When was it — in what year was 
15 it that you heard that Mr. Peter was the Great Lama ? ” They 
only joined issue to dispute whether llamas were carnivorous 
animals or not; in which dispute they were not quite on fair 
grounds, as Mrs. Forrester (after they had grown warm and 
cool again) acknowledged that she always confused carnivorous 
20 and graminivorous together, just as she did horizontal and per- 
pendicular; but then she apologized for it very prettily, by saying 
that in her day the only use people made of four-syllabled words 
was to teach how they should be spelled. 

The only fact I gained from this conversation was that cer- 
25 tainly Peter had last been heard of in India, “or that neighbor- 
hood”; and that this scanty intelligence of his whereabouts had 
reached Cranford in the year when Miss Pole had bought her 
India muslin gown, long since worn out (we washed it and 
mended it, and traced its decline and fall into a window-blind, 
30 before we could go on) ; and in a year when Wombwell came to 
Cranford, because Miss Matty had wanted to see an elephant in 
order that she might the better imagine Peter riding on one; and 
had seen a boa-constrictor too, which was more than she wished 
to imagine in her fancy pictures of Peter’s locality; and in a year 
35 when Miss Jenkyns had learned some piece of poetry off by 
heart, and used to say, at all the Cranford parties, how Peter was 
“surveying mankind from China to Peru,” which everybody had 
thought very grand, and rather appropriate, because India was 


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between China and Peru, if you took care to turn the globe to the 
left instead of the right. 

I suppose all these inquiries of mine, and the consequent 
curiosity excited in the minds of my friends, made us blind and 
deaf to what was going on around us. It seemed to me as if the 
sun rose and shone, and as if the rain rained on Cranford, just as 
usual, and I did not notice any sign of the times that could be con- 
sidered as a prognostic of any uncommon event; and, to the best 
of my belief, not only Miss Matty and Mrs. Forrester, but even 
Miss Pole herself, whom we looked upon as a kind of prophetess, 
from the knack she had of foreseeing things before they came to 
pass — although she did not like to disturb her friends by telling 
them her foreknowledge — even Miss Pole herself was breathless 
with astonishment when she came to tell us of the astounding 
piece of news. But I must recover myself; the contemplation of 
it, even at this distance of time, has taken away my breath and 
my grammar, and unless I subdue my emotion, my spelling will 
go too. 

We were sitting — Miss Matty and I — much as usual, she in 
the blue chintz easy-chair, with her back to the light, and her 
knitting in her hand, I reading aloud the “St. James’s Chronicle.” 
A few minutes more, and we should have gone to make the little 
alterations in dress usual before calling time (twelve o’clock) in 
Cranford. I remember the scene and the date well. We had 
been talking of the signor’s rapid recovery since the warmer 
weather had set in, and praising Mr. Hoggins’s skill, and lament- 
ing his want of refinement and manner (it seems a curious co- 
incidence that this should have been our subject, but so it was), 
when a knock was heard — a caller’s knock — three distinct taps 
— and we were flying (that is to say, Miss Matty could not walk 
very fast, having had a touch of rheumatism) to our rooms,, to 
change caps and collars, when Miss Pole arrested us by calling 
out, as she came up the stairs, ‘‘Don’t go — I can’t wait— it is not 
twelve, I know — but never mind your dress — I must speak to 
you.” We did our best to look as if it was not we whabad nfiide 
the hurried movement, the sound of which she had heard; for, of 
course, we did not like to have it supposed that we had any old 
clothes that it was convenient to wear out in the “ sanctuary of 


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home,” as Miss Jenkyns once prettily called the back parlor, 
where she was tying up preserves. So we threw our gentility 
with double force into our manners, and very genteel we were 
for two minutes while Miss Pole recovered breath, and excited 
5 our curiosity strongly by lifting up her hands in amazement, and 
bringing them down in silence, as if what she had to say was too 
big for words, and could only be expressed by pantomime. 

“ What do you think, Miss Matty ? What do you think ? 
Lady Glenmire is to marry — is to be married, I mean — Lady 
10 Glenmire — Mr. Hoggins — Mr. Hoggins is going to marry Lady 
Glenmire!” 

“Marry!” said we. “Marry! Madness!” 

“Marry!” said Miss Pole, with the decision that belonged to 
her character. “/ said marry! as you do; and I also said, 
15 ‘ What a fool my lady is going to make of herself! ’ I could have 
said ‘Madness!’ but I controlled myself, for it was in a public 
shop that I heard of it. Where feminine delicacy is gone to, I 
don’t know! You and I, Miss Matty, would have been ashamed 
to have known that our marriage was spoken of in a grocer’s 
20 shop, in the hearing of shopmen!” 

“ But,” said Miss Matty, sighing as one recovering from a blow, 
“perhaps it is not true. Perhaps we are doing her injustice.” 

“No,” said Miss Pole. “I have taken care to ascertain that. 
I went straight to Mrs. Fitz-Adam, to borrow a cookery book 
25 which I knew she had; and I introduced my congratulations 
apropos of the difficulty gentlemen must have in housekeeping; 
and Mrs. Fitz-Adam bridled up, and said that she believed it 
was true, though how and where I could have heard it she did 
not know. She said her brother and Lady Glenmire had come 
30 to an understanding at last. ‘Understanding!’ such a coarse 
word! But my lady will have to come down to many a want of 
refinement. I have reason to believe Mr. Hoggins sups on 
bread-and-cheese and beer every night.” 

“Marry!” said Miss Matty once again. “Well! I never 
35 thdught of it. Two people that we know going to be married. 
It’s coming very near!” 

“So near that my heart stopped beating, when I heard of it, 
while you might have counted twelve,” said Miss Pole. 


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“One does not know whose turn may come next. Here, in 
Cranford, poor Lady Glenmire might have thought herself safe,” 
said Miss Matty, with a gentle pity in her tones. 

“Bah!” said Miss Pole, with a toss of her head. “Don’t you 
remember poor dear Captain Brown’s song, ‘Tibbie Fowler,’ and 
the line — 

‘Set her on the Tintock Tap, 

The wind will blow a man till her?’ 

“That was because ‘Tibbie Fowler’ was rich, I think.” 

“Well! there is a kind of attraction about Lady Glenmire that 
I, for one, should be ashamed to have.” 

I put in my wonder. “But how can she have fancied Mr. 
Hoggins? I am not surprised that Mr. Hoggins has liked her.” 

“Oh! I don’t know. Mr. Hoggins is rich, and very pleasant- 
looking,” said Miss Matty, “and very good-tempered and kind- 
hearted.” 

“She has married for an establishment, that’s it. I suppose 
she takes the surgery with it,” said Miss Pole, with a little dry 
laugh at her own joke. But, like many people who think they 
have made a severe and sarcastic speech, which yet is clever of 
its kind, she began to relax of her grimness from the moment 
when she made this allusion to the surgery; and we turned to 
speculate on the way in which Mrs. Jamieson would receive the 
news. The person whom she had left in charge of her house to 
keep off followers from her maids to set up a follower of her own ! 
And that follower a man whom Mrs. Jamieson had tabooed as 
vulgar, and inadmissible to Cranford society, not merely on 
account of his name, but because of his voice, his complexion, 
his boots, smelling of the stable, and himself, smelling of drugs. 
Had he ever been to see Lady Glenmire at Mrs. Jamieson’s? 
Chloride of lime would not purify the house in its owner’s esti- 
mation if he had. Or had their interviews been confined to the 
occasional meetings in the chamber of the poor sick conjurer, 
to whom, with all our sense of the mesalliance, we could not help 
allowing that they had both been exceedingly kind ? And now 
it turned out that a servant of Mrs. Jamieson’s had been ill, and 
Mr. Hoggins had been attending her for some weeks. So the 


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wolf had got into the fold, and now he was carrying off the 
shepherdess. What would Mrs. Jamieson say? We looked 
into the darkness of futurity as a child gazes after a rocket up in 
the cloudy sky, full of wondering expectation of the rattle, the 
5 discharge, and the brilliant shower of sparks and light. Then 
we brought ourselves down to earth and the present time by 
questioning each other (being all equally ignorant, and all 
equally without the slightest data to build any conclusions upon) 
as to when it would take place ? Where ? How much a year 
10 Mr. Hoggins had? Whether she would drop her title? And 
how Martha and the other correct servants in Cranford would 
ever be brought to announce a married couple as Lady Glenmire 
and Mr. Hoggins ? But would they be visited ? Would Mrs. 
Jamieson let us? Or must we choose between the Honorable 
15 Mrs. Jamieson and the degraded Lady Glenmire ? We all liked 
Lady Glenmire the best. She was bright, and kind, and sociable, 
and agreeable; and Mrs. Jamieson was dull, and inert, and pom- 
pous, and tiresomg. But we had acknowledged the sway of the 
latter so long, that it seemed like a kind of disloyalty now even to 
20 meditate disobedience to the prohibition we anticipated. 

Mrs. Forrester surprised us in our darned caps and patched 
collars; and we forgot all about them in our eagerness to see how 
she would bear the information, which we honorably left to Miss 
Pole to impart, although, if we had been inclined to take unfair 
25 advantage, we might have rushed in ourselves, for she had a 
most out-of-place fit of coughing for five minutes after Mrs. 
Forrester entered the room. I shall never forget the imploring 
expression of her eyes, as she looked at us over her pocket-hand- 
kerchief. They said, as plain as words could speak, “ Don’t let 
30 nature deprive me of the treasure which is mine, although for a 
time I can make no use of it.” And we did not. 

Mrs. Forrester’s surprise was equal to ours; and her sense of 
injury rather greater, because she had to feel for her Order, and 
saw more fully than we could do how such conduct brought 
35 stains on the aristocracy. 

When she and Miss Pole left us we endeavored to subside into 
calmness; but Miss Matty was really upset by the intelligence 
she had heard. She reckoned it up, and it was more than fifteen 


ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED 129 

years since she had heard of any of her acquaintance going to be 
married, with the one exception of. Miss Jessie Brown; and, as 
she said, it gave her quite a shock, and made her feel as if she 
could not think what would happen next. 

I don’t know whether it is a fancy of mine, or a real fact, but I 
have noticed that, just after the announcement of an engagement 
in any set, the unmarried ladies in that set flutter out in an un- 
usual gayety and newness of dress, as much as to say, in a tacit 
and unconscious manner, “We also are spinsters.” Miss Matty 
and Miss Pole talked and thought more about bonnets, gowns, 
caps, and shawls, during the fortnight that succeeded this call, 
than I had known them do for years before. But it might be the 
spring weather, for it was a warm and pleasant March; and 
merinoes and beavers, and woollen materials of all sorts were 
but ungracious receptacles of the bright sun’s glancing rays. It 
had not been Lady Glenmire’s dress that had won Mr. Hoggins’s 
heart, for she went about on her errands of kindness more shabby 
than ever. Although in the hurried glimpses I caught of her at 
church or elsewhere she appeared rather to shun meeting any of 
her friends, her face seemed to have almost something of the 
flush of youth in it; her lips looked redder and more trembling 
full than in their old compressed state, and her eyes dwelt on all 
things with a lingering light, as if she was learning to love Cran- 
ford and its belongings. Mr. Hoggins looked broad and radiant, 
and creaked up the middle aisle at church in a brand-new pair of 
top-boots — an audible, as well as visible, sign of his purposed 
change of state; for the tradition went, that the boots he had 
worn till now were the identical pair in which he first set out on 
his rounds in Cranford twenty-five years ago ; only they had been 
new-pieced, high and low, top and bottom, heel and sole, black 
leather and brown leather, more times than any one could tell. 

None of the ladies in Cranford chose to sanction the marriage 
by congratulating either of the parties. We wished to ignore the 
whole affair until our liege lady, Mrs. Jamieson, returned. Till 
she came back to give us our cue, we felt that it would be better 
to consider the engagement in the same light as the Queen of 
Spain’s legs — facts which certainly existed, but the less said about 
the betteV. This restraint upon our tongues — for you see if we 


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did not speak about it to any of the parties concerned, how could 
we get answers to the questions that we longed to ask? — was 
beginning to be irksome, and our idea of the dignity of silence 
was paling before our curiosity, when another direction was 
given to our thoughts, by an announcement on the part of the 
principal shopkeeper of Cranford, who ranged the trades from 
grocer and cheese-monger to man milliner, as occasion required, 
that the Spring Fashions were arrived, and would be exhibited 
on the following Tuesday at his rooms in High Street. Now 
Miss Matty had been only waiting for this before buying herself 
a new silk gown. I had offered, it is true, to send to Drumble 
for patterns, but she had rejected my proposal, gently implying 
that she had not forgotten her disappointment about the sea- 
green turban. I was thankful that I was on the spot now, to 
counteract the dazzling fascination of any yellow or scarlet silk. 

I must say a word or two here about myself. I have spoken 
of my father’s old friendship for the Jenkyns family; indeed, I 
am not sure if there was not some distant relationship. He had 
willingly allowed me to remain all the winter at Cranford, in con- 
sideration .of a letter which Miss Matty had written to him about 
the time of the panic, in which I suspect she had exaggerated my 
powers and my bravery as a defender of the house. But now 
that the days were longer and more cheerful, he was beginning to 
urge the necessity of my return; and I only delayed in a sort of 
odd forlorn hope that if I could obtain any clear information, I 
might make the account given by the signora of the Aga Jenkyns 
tally with that of “poor Peter,” his appearance and disappear- 
ance, which I had winnowed out of the conversation of Miss Pole 
and Mrs. Forrester. 

CHAPTER XIII 

STOPPED PAYMENT 

The very Tuesday morning on which Mr. Johnson was going to 
show the fashions, the post-woman brought two letters to the 
house. I say the post-woman, but I should say the postman’s 
wife. He was a lame shoemaker, a very clean, honest man, 
much respected in the town; but he never brought the letters 


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round except on unusual occasions, such as Christmas Day or 
Good Friday; and on .those days the letters, which should have 
been delivered at eight in the morning, did not make their ap- 
pearance until two or three in the afternoon, for every one liked 
poor Thomas, and gave him a welcome on these festive occasions. 
He used to say, “ He was welly stawed wi’ eating, for there were 
three or four houses where nowt would serve ’em but he must 
share in their breakfast”; and by the time he had done his last 
breakfast, he came to some other friend who was beginning 
dinner; but come what might in the way of temptation, Tom 
was always sober, civil, and smiling; and, as Miss Jenkyns used 
to say, it was a lesson in patience, that she doubted not would 
call out that precious quality in some minds, where, but for 
Thomas, it might have lain dormant and undiscovered. Pa- 
tience was certainly very dormant in Miss Jenkyns’s mind. She 
was always expecting letters, and always drumming on the table 
till the post-woman had called or gone past. On Christmas Day 
and Good Friday she drummed from breakfast till church, from 
church-time till two o’clock— unless when the fire wanted stirring, 
when she invariably knocked down the fire-irons, and scolded 
Miss Matty for it. But equally certain was the hearty welcome 
and the good dinner for Thomas; Miss Jenkyns standing over 
him like a bold dragoon, questioning him as to his children — 
what they were doing — what school they went to; upbraiding 
him if another was likely to make its appearance, but sending 
even the little babies the shilling and the mince-pie which was 
her gift to all the children, with half-a-crown in addition for both 
father and mother. The post was not half of so much conse- 
quence to dear Miss Matty; but not for the world would she have 
diminished Thomas’s welcome and his dole, though I could see 
that she felt rather shy over the ceremony, which had been re- 
garded by Miss Jenkyns as a glorious opportunity for giving 
advice and benefiting her fellow-creatures. Miss Matty would 
steal the money all in a lump into his hand, as if she were 
ashamed of herself. Miss Jenkyns gave him each individual 
coin separate, with a “There! that’s for yourself; that’s for 
Jenny,” etc. Miss Matty would even beckon Martha out of the 
kitchen while he ate his food: and once, to my knowledge, winked 


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at its rapid disappearance into a blue cotton pocket-handker- 
chief. Miss Jenkyns almost scolded him if he did not leave a 
clean plate, however heaped it might have been, and gave an in- 
junction with every mouthful. 

5 I have wandered a long way from the two letters that awaited 
us on the breakfast-table that Tuesday morning. Mine was 
from my father. Miss Matty’s was printed. My father’s was 
just a man’s letter; I mean it was very dull, and gave no informa- 
tion beyond that he was well, that they had had a good deal of 
10 rain, that trade was very stagnant, and there were many dis- 
agreeable rumors afloat. He then asked me if I knew whether 
Miss Matty still retained her shares in the Town and County 
Bank, as there were very unpleasant reports about it; though 
nothing more than he had always foreseen, and had prophesied 
15 to Miss Jenkyns years ago, when she would invest their little 
property in it — the only unwise step that clever woman had ever 
taken, to his knowledge (the only time she ever acted against his 
advice, I knew). However, if anything had gone wrong, of 
course I was not to think of leaving Miss Matty while I could be 
20 of any use, etc. 

“ Who is your letter from, my dear ? Mine is a very civil in- 
vitation, signed ‘Edwin Wilson,’ asking me to attend an import- 
ant meeting of the shareholders of the Town and County Bank, 
to be held in Drumble, on Thursday the twenty-first. I am 
25 sure, it is very attentive of them to remember me.” 

I did not like to hear of this “important meeting,” for, though 
I did not know much about business, I feared it confirmed what 
my father said: however, I thought, ill news always came fast 
enough, so I resolved to say nothing about my alarm, and merely 
30 told her that my father was well, and sent his kind regards to her. 
She kept turning over and admiring her letter. At last she 
spoke: 

“I remember their sending one to Deborah just like this; but 
that I did not wonder at, for everybody knew she was so clear- 
35 headed. I am afraid I could not help them much; indeed, if 
they came to accounts, I should be quite in the way, for I never 
could do sums in my head. Deborah, I know, rather wished to 
go, and went so far as to order a new bonnet for the occasion ; but 


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when the time came she had a bad cold; so they sent her a very 
polite account of what they had done. Chosen a director, I 
think it was. Do you think they want me to help them to choose 
a director ? I am sure I should choose your father at once.” 

“My father has no shares in the bank,” said I. 

“Oh, no! I remember. He objected very much to Deborah’s 
buying any, I believe. But she was quite the woman of business, 
and always judged for herself; and here, you see, they have paid 
eight per cent, all these years.” 

It was a very uncomfortable subject to me, with my half- 
knowledge; so I thought I would change the conversation, and I 
asked at what time she thought we had better go and see the 
fashions. “Well, my dear,” she said, “the thing is this: it is 
not etiquette to go till after twelve; but then, you see, all Cran- 
ford will be there, and one does not like to be too curious about 
dress and trimmings and caps with all the world looking on. It 
is never genteel to be over-curious on these occasions. Deborah 
had the knack of always looking as if the latest fashion was 
nothing new to her; a manner she had caught from Lady Arley, 
who did see all the new modes in London, you know. So I 
thought we would just slip down this morning, soon after break- 
fast — for I do want half a pound of tea — and then we could go 
up and examine the things at our leisure, and see exactly how my 
new silk gown must be made; and then, after twelve, we could 
go with our minds disengaged, and free from thoughts of dress.” 

We began to talk of Miss Matty’s new silk gown. I dis- 
covered that it would be really the first time in her life that she 
had had to choose anything of consequence for herself : for Miss 
Jenkyns had always been the more decided character, whatever 
her taste might have been ; and it is astonishing how such people 
carry the world before them by the mere force of will. Miss 
Matty anticipated the sight of the glossy folds with as much 
delight as if the five sovereigns, set apart for the purchase, could 
buy all the silks in the shop; and (remembering my own loss of 
two hours in a toy-shop before I could tell on what wonder to 
spend a silver three-pence) I was very glad that we were going 
early, that dear Miss Matty might have leisure for the delights 
of perplexity. 


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If a happy sea-green could be met with, the gown was to be 
sea-green; if not, she inclined to maize, and I to silver-gray; and 
we discussed the requisite number of breadths until we arrived 
at the shop door. We were to buy the tea, select the silk, and 
then clamber up the iron corkscrew stairs that led into what was 
once a loft, though now a fashion show-room. 

The young men at Mr. Johnson’s had on their best looks, and 
their best cravats, and pivoted themselves over the counter with 
surprising activity. They wanted to show us up-stairs at once; 
but on the principle of business first and pleasure afterward, we 
stayed to purchase the tea. Here Miss Matty’s absence of mind 
betrayed itself. If she was made aware that she had been drink- 
ing green tea at any time, she always thought it her duty to lie 
awake half through the night afterward (I have known her take 
it in ignorance many a time without such effects), and conse- 
quently green tea was prohibited the house; yet to-day she her- 
self asked for the obnoxious article, under the impression that 
she was talking about the silk. However, the mistake was soon 
rectified; and then the silks were unrolled in good truth. By 
this time the shop was pretty well filled, for it was Cranford 
market-day, and many of the farmers and country people from 
the neighborhood round came in, sleeking down their hair, and 
glancing shyly about, from under their eyelids, as anxious to take 
back some notion of the unusual gayety to the mistress or the 
lasses at home, and yet feeling that they were out of place among 
the smart shopmen and gay shawls and summer prints. One 
honest-looking man, however, made his way up to the counter 
at which we stood, and boldly asked to look at a shawl or two. 
The other country folk confined themselves to the grocery side; 
but our neighbor was evidently too full of some kind intention 
toward mistress, wife, or daughter, to be shy; and it soon became 
a question with me, whether he or Miss Matty would keep their 
shopman the longest time. He thought each shawl more beau- 
tiful than the last; and, as for Miss Matty, she smiled and sighed 
over each fresh bale that was brought out; one color set off 
another, and the heap together would, as she said, make even 
the rainbow look poor. 

“I am afraid,” said she, hesitating, “whichever I choose I 


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135 


shall wish I had taken another. Look at this lovely crimson! it 
would be so warm in winter. But spring is coming on, you 
know. I wish I could have a gown for every season,” said she, 
dropping her voice — as we all did in Cranford whenever we 
talked of anything we wished for but could not afford. “How- 
ever,” she continued, in a louder and more cheerful tone, “it 
would give me a great deal of trouble to take care of them if I 
had them; so, I think, I’ll only take one. But which must it be, 
my dear?” 

And now she hovered over a lilac with yellow spots, while I 
pulled out a quiet sage-green that had faded into insignificance 
under the more brilliant colors, but which was nevertheless a 
good silk in its humble way. Our attention was called off to our 
neighbor. He had chosen a shawl of about thirty shillings’ value; 
and his face looked broadly happy, under the anticipation, no 
doubt, of the pleasant surprise he should give to some Molly or 
Jenny at home; he had tugged a leathern purse out of his 
breeches-pocket, and had offered a five-pound note in payment 
for the shawl, and for some parcels which had been brought 
round to him from the grocery counter; and it was just at this ^ 
point that he attracted our notice. The shopman was examining 
the note with a puzzled, doubtful air. 

“Town and County Bank! I am not sure, sir, but I believe 
we have received a warning against notes issued by this bank only 
this morning. I will just step and ask Mr. Johnson, sir; but I’m 
afraid I must trouble you for payment in cash, or in a note of a 
different bank.” 

I never saw a man’s countenance fall so suddenly into dismay 
and bewilderment. It was almost piteous to see the rapid 
change. 

“Dang it!” said he, striking his fist down on the table, as if 
to try which was the harder, “the chap talks as if notes and gold 
were to be had for the picking up.” 

Miss Matty had forgotten her silk gown in her interest for the 
man. I don’t think she had caught the name of the bank, and in 
my nervous cowardice I was anxious that she should not; and so 
I began admiring the yellow-spotted lilac gown that I had been 
utterly condemning only a minute before. But it was of no use. 


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“ What bank was it ? I mean what bank did your note belong 
to?” 

“Town and County Batik.” 

“Let me see it,” said she quietly to the shopman, gently 
taking it out of his hand, as he brought it back to return it to the 
farmer. 

Mr. Johnson was very sorry, but, from information he had 
received, the notes issued by that bank were little better than 
waste paper. 

“ I don’t understand it,” said Miss Matty to me in a low voice. 
“That is our bank, is it not? — the Town and County Bank?” 

“ Yes,” said I. “This lilac silk will just match the ribbons in 
your new cap, I believe,” I continued, holding up the folds so as 
to catch the light, and wishing that the man would make haste 
and be gone, and yet having a new wonder, that had only just 
sprung up, how far it was wise or right in me to allow Miss Matty 
to make this expensive purchase, if the affairs of the bank were 
really so bad as the refusal of the note implied. 

But Miss Matty put on the soft dignified manner peculiar to 
her, rarely used, and yet which became her so well, and laying 
her hand gently on mine, she said: 

“Never mind the silks for a few minutes, dear. I don’t 
understand you, sir,” turning now to the shopman, who had 
been attending to the farmer. “Is this a forged note?” 

“Oh, no, ma’am. It is a true note of its kind; but you see, 
ma’am, it is a joint-stock bank, and there are reports out that it 
is likely to break. Mr. Johnson is only doing his duty, ma’am, 
as I am sure Mr. Dobson knows.” 

But Mr. Dobson could not respond to the appealing bow by 
any answering smile. He was turning the note absently over in 
his fingers, looking gloomily enough at the parcel containing the 
lately chosen shawl. 

“ It’s hard upon a poor man,” said he, “ as earns every farthing 
with the sweat of his brow. However, there’s no help for it. 
You must take back your shawl, my man; Lizzie must do on 
with her cloak for a while. And yon figs for the little ones — I 
I promised them to ’em — I’ll take them; but the ’bacco, and the 
other things ” 


STOPPED PAYMENT 137 

“ I will give you five sovereigns for your note, my good man,” 
said Miss Matty. “ I think there is some great mistake about it, 
for I am one of the shareholders, and I’m sure they would have 
told me if things had not been going on right.” 

The shopman whispered a word or two across the table to Miss 
Matty. She looked at him with a dubious air. 

“ Perhaps so,” said she. “ But I don’t pretend to understand 
business; I only know that if it is going to fail, and if honest 
people are to lose their money because they have taken our notes 
— I can’t explain myself,” said she, suddenly becoming aware 
that she had got into a long sentence with four people for 
audience; “only I would rather exchange my gold for the note, 
if you please,” turning to the farmer, “and then you can take 
your wife the shawl. It is only going without my gown a few 
days longer,” she continued, speaking to me. “Then, I have no 
doubt, everything will be cleared up.” 

“But if it is cleared up the wrong way?” said I. 

“ Why, then it will only have been common honesty in me, as 
a shareholder, to have given this good man the money. I am 
quite clear about it in my own mind; but, you know, I can never 
speak quite as comprehensibly as others can; only you must give 
me your note, Mr. Dobson, if you please, and go on with your 
purchases with these sovereigns.” 

The man looked at her with silent gratitude — too awkward to 
put his thanks into words; but he hung back for a minute or two, 
fumbling with his note. 

“I’m loath to make another one lose instead of me, if it is a 
loss; but, you see, five pounds is a deal of money to a man with 
a family; and, as you say, ten to one in a day or two the note will 
be as good as gold again.” 

“No hope of that, my friend,” said the shopman. 

“The more reason why I should take it,” said Miss Matty, 
quietly. She pushed her sovereigns toward the man, who slowly 
laid his note down in exchange. “Thank you. I will wait a 
day or two before I purchase any of these silks; perhaps you will 
then have a greater choice. My dear, will you come up-stairs ? ” 

We inspected the fashions with as minute and curious an in- 
terest as if the gown to be made after them had been bought. I 


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could not see that the little event in the shop below had in the 
least damped Miss Matty’s curiosity as to the make of sleeves 
or the sit of skirts, She once or twice exchanged congratulations 
with me on our private and leisurely view of the bonnets and 
shawls; but I was, all the time, not so sure that our examination 
was so utterly private, for I caught glimpses of a figure dodging 
behind the cloaks and mantles; and, by a dexterous move, I 
came face to face with Miss Pole, also in morning costume (the 
principal feature of which was her being without teeth, and 
wearing a veil to conceal the deficiency), come on the same 
errand as ourselves. But she quickly took her departure, 
because, as she said, she had a bad headache, and did not feel 
herself up to conversation. 

As we came down through the shop, the civil Mr. Johnson was 
awaiting us; he had been informed of the exchange of the note for 
gold, and with much good feeling and real kindness, but with a 
little want of tact, he wished to condole with Miss Matty, and 
impress upon her the true state of the case. I could only hope 
that he had heard an exaggerated rumor, for he said that her 
shares were worse than nothing, and that the bank could not pay 
a shilling in the pound. I was glad that Miss Matty seemed still 
a little incredulous; but I could not tell how much of this was real 
or assumed, with that self-control which seemed habitual to 
ladies of Miss Matty’s standing in Cranford, who would have 
thought their dignity compromised by the slightest expression of 
surprise, dismay, or any similar feeling to an inferior in station, 
or in a public shop. However, we walked home very silently. 
I am ashamed to say, I believe I was rather vexed and annoyed 
at Miss Matty’s conduct in taking the note to herself so decid- 
edly. I had so set my heart upon her having a new silk gown, 
which she wanted sadly; in general she was so undecided 
anybody might turn her round; in this case I had felt that it 
was no use attempting it, but I was not the less put out at the 
result. 

Somehow, after twelve o’clock, we both acknowledged to a 
sated curiosity about the fashions, and to a certain fatigue of 
body (which was, in fact, depression of mind) that indisposed us 
to go out again. But still we never spoke of the note; till, all at 


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once, something possessed me to ask Miss Matty if she would 
think it her duty to offer sovereigns for all the notes of the Town 
and County Bank she met with ? I could have bitten my tongue 
out the minute I had said it. She looked up rather sadly, and as 
if I had thrown a new perplexity into her already distressed mind; 
and for a minute or two she did not speak. Then she said — my 
own dear Miss Matty — without a shade of reproach in her voice: 
“My dear, I never feel as if my mind was what people call 
very strong; and it’s often hard enough work for me to settle 
what I ought to do with the case right before me. I was very 
thankful to — I was very thankful, that I saw my duty this morn- 
ing, with the poor man standing by me; but it’s rather a strain 
upon me to keep thinking and thinking what I should do if such 
and such a thing happened; and, I believe, I had rather wait and 
see what really does come; and I don’t doubt I shall be helped 
then, if I don’t fidget myself, and get too anxious beforehand. 
You know, love, I’m not like Deborah. If Deborah had lived, 
I’ve no doubt she would have seen after them, before they had 
got themselves into this state.” 

We had neither of us much appetite for dinner, though we 
tried to talk cheerfully about indifferent things. When we re- 
turned into the drawing-room, Miss Matty unlocked her desk 
and began to look over her account-books. I was so penitent 
for what I had said in the morning, that I did not choose to take 
upon myself the presumption to suppose that I could assist her; 
I rather left her alone, as, with puzzled brow, her eye followed 
her pen up and down the ruled page. By and by she shut the 
book, locked her desk, and came and drew a chair to mine, where 
I sat in moody sorrow over the fire. I stole my hand into hers; 
she clasped it, but did not speak a word. At last she said, with 
forced composure in her voice, “ If that bank goes wrong, I shall 
lose one hundred and forty-nine pounds thirteen shillings and 
fourpence a year; I shall only have thirteen pounds a year left.” 
I squeezed her hand hard and tight. I did not know what to say. 
Presently (it was too dark to see her face) I felt her fingers work 
convulsively in my grasp, and I knew she was going to speak 
again. I heard the sobs in her voice as she said, “ I hope it’s not 
wrong — not wicked — but, oh! I am so glad poor Deborah is 


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spared this. She could not have borne to come down in the 
world — she had such a noble, lofty spirit.” 

This was all she said about the sister who had insisted upon in- 
vesting their little property in that unlucky bank. We were later 
in lighting the candle than usual that night, and until that light 
shamed us into speaking, we sat together very silently and sadly. 

However, we took to our work after tea with a kind of forced 
cheerfulness (which soon became real as far as it went), talking 
of that never-ending wonder, Lady Glenmire’s engagement. 
Miss Matty was almost coming round to think it a good thing. 

“ I don’t mean to deny that men are troublesome in a house. 
I don’t judge from my own experience, for my father was neat- 
ness itself, and wiped his shoes on coming in as carefully as any 
woman; but still a man has a sort of knowledge of what should 
be done in difficulties, that it is very pleasant to have one at hand 
ready to lean upon. Now, Lady Glenmire, instead of being 
tossed about, and wondering where she is to settle, will be cer- 
tain of a home among pleasant and kind people, such as our 
good Miss Pole and Mrs. Forrester. And Mr. Hoggins is really 
a very personable man; and as for his manners, why, if they are 
not very polished, I have known people with very good hearts, 
and very clever minds too, who were not what some people 
reckoned refined, but who were both true and tender.” 

She fell off into a soft reverie about Mr. Holbrook, and I did 
not interrupt her, I was so busy maturing a plan I had had in my 
mind for some days, but which this threatened failure of the bank 
had brought to a crisis. That night, after Miss Matty went to 
bed, I treacherously lighted a candle again, and sat down in the 
drawing-room to compose a letter to the Aga Jenkyns, a letter 
which should affect him if he were Peter, and yet seem a mere 
statement of dry facts if he were a stranger. The church clock 
pealed out two before I had done. 

The next morning news came, both official and otherwise, that 
the Town and County Bank had stopped payment. Miss Matty 
was ruined. 

She tried to speak quietly to me; but when she came to the 
actual fact that she would have but about five shillings a week to 
live upon, she could not restrain a few tears. 


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“I am not crying for myself, dear,” said she, wiping them 
away; “ I believe I am crying for the very silly thought of how my 
mother would grieve if she could know; she always cared for us 
so much more than for herself. But many a poor person has 
less, and I am not very extravagant, and, thank God, when the 5 
neck of mutton, and Martha’s wages, and the rent are paid, I 
have not a farthing owing. Poor Martha! I think she’ll be 
sorry to leave me.” 

Miss Matty smiled at me through her tears, and she would 
fain have had me see only the smile, not the tears. 10 

CHAPTER XIV 

FRIENDS IN NEED 

It was an example to me, and I fancy it might be to many others, 
to see how immediately Miss Matty set about the retrenchment 
which she knew to be right under her altered circumstances. 
While she went down to speak to Martha, and break the intelli- 
gence to her, I stole out with my letter to the Aga Jenkyns, and 15 
went to the signor’s lodgings to obtain the exact address. I 
bound the signora to secrecy; and indeed her military manners 
had a degree of shortness and reserve in them which made her 
always say as little as possible, except when under the pressure 
of strong excitement. Moreover (which made my secret doubly 2Q 
sure), the signor was now so far recovered as to be looking for- 
ward to travelling and conjuring again in the space of a few days, 
when he, his wife, and little Phoebe would leave Cranford. 
Indeed, I found him looking over a great black and red placard, 
in which the Signor Brunoni’s accomplishments were set forth, 25 
and to which only the name of the town where he would next 
display them was wanting. He and his wife were so much ab- 
sorbed in deciding where the red letters would come in with most 
effect (it might have been the Rubric for that matter), that it 
was some time before I could get my question asked privately, 30 
and not before I had given several decisions, the wisdom of 
which I questioned afterward with equal sincerity as soon as the 
signor threw in his doubts and reasons on the important subject. 


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At last I got the address, spelled by sound, and very queer it 
looked. I dropped it in the post on my way home, and then for 
a minute I stood looking at the wooden pane with a gaping slit 
which divided me from the letter but a moment ago in my hand. 
It was gone from me like life, never to be recalled. It would get 
tossed about on the sea, and stained with sea waves perhaps, and 
be carried among palm-trees, and scented with all tropical 
fragrance; the little piece of paper, but an hour ago so familiar 
and commonplace, had set out on its race to the strange wild 
countries beyond the Ganges! Bui I could not afford to lose 
much time on this speculation. I hastened home, that Miss 
Matty might not miss me. Martha opened the door to me, her 
face swollen with crying. As soon as she saw me she burst out 
afresh, and taking hold of my arm she pulled me in, and banged 
the door to, in order to ask me if indeed it was all true that Miss 
Matty had been saying. 

“I’ll never leave her! No; I won’t. I telled her so, and said 
I could not think how she could find in her heart to give me 
warning. I could not have had the face to do it, if I’d been her. 
I might ha’ been just as good for nothing as Mrs. Fitz-Adam’s 
Rosy, who struck for wages after living seven years and a half in 
one place. I said I was not one to go and serve Mammon at that 
rate; that I knew when I’d got a good missus, if she didn’t know 
when she’d got a good servant ” 

“But, Martha,” said I, cutting in while she wiped her eyes. 

“Don’t ‘but Martha’ me,” she replied to my deprecatory tone. 

“Listen to reason ” 

“ I’ll not listen to reason,” she said, now in full possession of 
her voice, which had been rather choked with sobbing. “ Reason 
always means what some one else has got to say. Now I think 
what I’ve got to say is good enough reason; but reason or not, 
I’ll say it, and I’ll stick to it. I’ve money in the Savings Bank, 
and I’ve a good stock of clothes, and I’m not going to leave Miss 
Matty. No, not if she gives me warning every hour in the day ! ” 

She put her arms akimbo, as much as to say she defied me; 
and, indeed, I could hardly tell how to begin to remonstrate with 
her, so much did I feel that Miss Matty, in her increasing in- 
firmity, needed the attendance of this kind and faithful woman. 


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“Well,” said I at last 

“I’m thankful you begin with ‘well!’ If you’d ha’ begun 
with ‘ but,’ as you did afore, I’d not ha’ listened to you. Now 
you may go on.” 

“ I know you would be a great loss to Miss Matty, Martha — ” 

“I telled her so. A loss she’d never cease to be sorry for,” 
broke in Martha, triumphantly. 

“Still, she will have so little — so very little — to live upon, that 
I don’t see just now how she could find you food — she will even be 
pressed for her own. I tell you this, Martha, because I feel you 
are like a friend to dear Miss Matty, but you know she might not 
like to have it spoken about.” 

Apparently this was even a blacker view of the subject than 
Miss Matty had presented to her, for Martha just sat down on 
the first chair that came to hand, and cried out loud (we had been 
standing in the kitchen). 

At last she put her apron down, and looking me earnestly in 
the face, asked, “Was that the reason Miss Matty wouldn’t order 
a pudding to-day? She said she had no great fancy for sweet 
things, and you and she would just have a mutton-chop. But 
I’ll be up to her. Never you tell, but I’ll make her a pudding, 
and a pudding she’ll like too, and I’ll pay for it myself; so mind 
you see she eats it. Many a one has been comforted in their 
sorrow by seeing a good dish come upon the table.” 

I was rather glad that Martha’s energy had taken the imme- 
diate and practical direction of pudding-making, for it staved off 
the quarrelsome discussion as to whether she should or should 
not leave Miss Matty’s service. She began to tie on a clean 
apron, and otherwise prepare herself for going to the shop for the 
butter, eggs, and what else she might require. She would not 
use a scrap of the articles already in the house for her cookery, 
but went to an old teapot in which her private store of money 
was deposited, and took out what she wanted. 

I found Miss Matty very quiet, and not a little sad; but by 
and by she tried to smile for my sake. It was settled that I was 
to write to my father, and ask him to come over and hold a con- 
sultation, and as soon as this letter was despatched we began to 
talk over future plans. Miss Matty’s idea was to take a single 


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room, and retain as much of her furniture as would be necessary 
to fit up this, and sell the rest, and there to quietly exist upon 
what would remain after paying the rent. For my part, I was 
more ambitious and less contented. I thought of all the things 
5 by which a woman, past middle age, and with the education com- 
mon to ladies fifty years ago, could earn or add to a living with- 
out materially losing caste; but at length I put even this last 
clause on one side, and wondered what in the world Miss Matty 
could do. 

10 Teaching was, of course, the first thing that suggested itself. 
If Miss Matty could teach children anything, it would throw her 
among the little elves in whom her soul delighted. I ran over her 
accomplishments. Once upon a time I had heard her say she 
could play “Ah! vous dirai-je, mamanf ” on the piano, but that 
15 was long, long ago; that faint shadow of musical acquirement 
had died out years before. She had also once been able to trace 
out patterns very nicely for muslin embroidery, by dint of placing 
a piece of silver paper over the design to be copied, and holding 
both against the window-pane while she marked the scallop and 
20 eyelet holes. But that was her nearest approach to the accom- 
plishment of drawing, and I did not think it would go very far. 
Then again, as to the branches of a solid English education — 
fancy work and the use of the globes — such as the mistress of the 
Ladies’ Seminary, to which all the tradespeople in Cranford sent 
25 their daughters, professed to teach. Miss Matty’s eyes were 
failing her, and I doubted if she could discover the number of 
threads in a worsted-work pattern, or rightly appreciate the 
different shades required for Queen Adelaide’s face in the loyal 
wool-work now fashionable in Cranford. As for the use of the 
30 globes, I had never been able to find it out myself, so perhaps 
I was not a good judge of Miss Matty’s capability of instructing 
in this branch of education; but it struck me that equators and 
tropics, and such mystical circles, were very imaginary lines 
indeed to her, and that she looked upon the signs of the Zodiac as 
35 so many remnants of the Black Art. 

What she piqued herself upon, as arts in which she excelled, 
was making candle-lighters, or “spills” (as she preferred calling 
them), of colored paper, cut so as to resemble feathers, and 


FRIENDS IN NEED 


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knitting garters in a variety of dainty stitches. I had once said, 
on receiving a present of an elaborate pair, that I should feel 
quite tempted to drop one of them in the street in order to have 
it admired; but I found this little joke (and it was a very little 
one) was such a distress to her sense of propriety, and was taken 
with such anxious, earnest alarm, lest the temptation might some 
day prove too strong for me, that I quite regretted having vent- 
ured upon it. A present of these delicately wrought garters, a 
bunch of gay “spills/’ or a set of cards on which sewing-silk was 
wound in a mystical manner, were the well-known tokens of Miss 
Matty’s favor. But would any one pay to have their children 
taught these arts ? or, indeed, would Miss Matty sell, for filthy 
lucre, the knack and the skill with which she made trifles of value 
to those who loved her ? 

I had to come down to reading, writing, and arithmetic; and, 
in reading the chapter every morning, she always coughed before 
coming to long words. I doubted her power of getting through a 
genealogical chapter, with any number of coughs. Writing she 
did well and delicately — but spelling! She seemed to think that 
the more out-of-the-way this was, and the more trouble it cost her 
the greater the compliment she paid to her correspondent; and 
words that she would spell quite correctly in her letters to me 
became perfect enigmas when she wrote to my father. 

No! there was nothing she could teach to the rising generation 
of Cranford, unless they had been quick learners and ready 
imitators of her patience, her humility, her sweetness, her quiet 
contentment with all that she could not do. I pondered and 
pondered until dinner was announced by Martha, with a face all 
blubbered and swollen with crying. 

Miss Matty had a few little peculiarities which Martha was apt 
to regard as whims below her attention, and appeared to consider 
as childish fancies of which an old lady of fifty-eight should try 
and cure herself. But to-day everything was attended to with 
the most careful regard. The bread was cut to the imaginary 
pattern of excellence that existed in Miss Matty’s mind, as being 
the way which her mother had preferred, the curtain was drawn 
so as to exclude the dead brick wall of a neighbor’s stables, and 
yet left so as to show every tender leaf of the poplar which was 


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bursting into spring beauty. Martha’s tone to Miss Matty was 
just such as that good, rough-spoken servant usually kept sacred 
for little children, and which I had never heard her use to any 
grown-up person. 

5 I had forgotten to tell Miss Matty about the pudding, and I was 
afraid she might not do justice to it, for she had evidently very 
little appetite this day; so I seized the opportunity of letting her 
into the secret while Martha took away the meat. Miss Matty’s 
eyes filled with tears, and she could not speak, either to express 
10 surprise or delight, when Martha returned bearing it aloft, made 
in the most wonderful representation of a lion couchant that ever 
was moulded. Martha’s face gleamed with triumph as she set 
it down before Miss Matty with an exultant “There!” Miss 
Matty wanted to speak her thanks, but could not; so she took 
15 Martha’s hand and shook it warmly, which set Martha off crying, 
and I myself could hardly keep up the necessary composure. 
Martha burst out of the room, and Miss Matty had to clear her 
voice once or twice before she could speak. At last she said, “ I 
should like to keep this pudding under a glass shade, my dear! ” 
20 and the notion of the lion couchant , with his currant eyes, being 
hoisted up to the place of honor on a mantelpiece tickled my 
hysterical fancy, and I began to laugh, which rather surprised 
Miss Matty. 

“ I am sure, dear, I have seen uglier things under a glass shade 
25 before now,” said she. 

So had I, many a time and oft, and I accordingly composed my 
countenance (and how I could hardly keep from crying), and we 
both fell to upon the pudding, which was indeed excellent — only 
every morsel seemed to choke us, our hearts were so full. 

30 We had too much to think about to talk much that afternoon. 
It passed over very tranquilly. But when the tea-urn was 
brought in a new thought came into my head. Why should not 
Miss Matty sell tea — be an agent to the East India Tea Company 
which then existed? I could see no objections to this plan, 
35 while the advantages were many — always supposing that Miss 
Matty could get over the degradation of condescending to any- 
thing like trade. Tea was neither greasy nor sticky — grease and 
stickiness being two of the qualities which Miss Matty could not 


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endure. No shop-window would be required. A small, genteel 
notification of her being licensed to sell tea would, it is true, be 
necessary, but I hoped that it could be placed where no one 
would see it. Neither was tea a heavy article, so as to tax Miss 
Matty’s fragile strength. The only thing against my plan was 
the buying and selling involved. 

While I was giving but absent answers to the questions Miss 
Matty was putting — almost as absently — we heard a clumping 
sound on the stairs, and a whispering outside the door, which 
indeed once opened and shut as if by some invisible agency. 
After a little while Martha came in, dragging after her a great 
tall young man, all crimson with shyness, and finding his only 
relief in perpetually sleeking down his hair. 

“ Please, ma’am, he’s only Jem Hearn,” said Martha, by way 
of an introduction ; and so out of breath was she that I imagine 
she had had some bodily struggle before she could overcome his 
reluctance to be presented on the courtly scene of Miss Matilda 
Jenkyns’s drawing-room. 

“And please, ma’am, he wants to marry me off-hand. And 
please, ma’am, we want to take a lodger — just one quiet lodger, 
to make our two ends meet; and we’d take any house conform- 
able; and, oh, dear Miss Matty, if I may be so bold, would you 
have any objections to lodging with us ? Jem wants it as much 
as I do.” [To Jem :] — “ You great oaf! why can’t you back me ? 
— But he does want it all the same, very bad — don’t you, Jem ? — 
only, you see, he’s dazed at being called on to speak before 
quality.” 

“ It’s not that,” broke in Jem. “ It’s that you’ve taken me all 
on a sudden, and I didn’t think for to get married so soon — and 
such quick work does flabbergast a man. It’s not that I’m 
against it, ma’am” (addressing Miss Matty), “only Martha has 
such quick ways with her when once she takes a thing into her 
head; and marriage, ma’am — marriage nails a man, as one may 
say. I dare say I shan’t mind it after it’s once over.” 

“Please, ma’am,” said Martha — who had plucked at his 
sleeve, and nudged him with her elbow, and otherwise tried to 
interrupt him all the time he had been speaking — “don’t mind 
him, he’ll come to; ’twas only last night he was an-axing me, and 


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an-axing me, and all the more because I said I could not think of 
it for years to come, and now he’s only taken aback with the 
suddenness of the joy; but you know, Jem, you are just as full as 
me about wanting a lodger.” (Another great nudge.) 

“Ay! if Miss Matty would lodge with us — otherwise I’ve no 
mind to be cumbered with strange folk in the house,” said Jem, 
with a want of tact which I could see enraged Martha, who was 
trying to represent a lodger as the great object they wished to 
obtain, and that, in fact, Miss Matty would be smoothing their 
path and conferring a favor, if she would only come and live 
with them. 

Miss Matty herself was bewildered by the pair; their, or rather 
Martha’s sudden resolution in favor of matrimony staggered her, 
and stood between her and the contemplation of the plan which 
Martha had at heart. Miss Matty began: 

“Marriage is a very solemn thing, Martha.” 

“It is indeed, ma’am,” quoth Jem. “Not that I’ve no objec- 
tions to Martha.” 

“You’ve never let me a-be for asking me for to fix when I 
would be married,” said Martha — her face all afire, and ready 
to cry with vexation — “and now you’re shaming me before my 
missus and all.” 

“Nay, now! Martha, don’t ee! don’t ee! only a man likes to 
have breathing time,” said Jem, trying to possess himself of her 
hand, but in vain. Then seeing that she was more seriously 
hurt than he had imagined, he seemed to try to rally his scattered 
faculties, and with more straightforward dignity than, ten minutes 
before, I should have thought it possible for him to assume, he 
turned to Miss Matty, and said, “ I hope, ma’am, you know that 
I am bound to respect every one who has been kind to Martha. 
I always looked on her as to be my wife — some time; and she has 
often and often spoken of you as the kindest lady that ever was; 
and though the plain truth is, I would not like to be troubled with 
lodgers of the common run, yet if, ma’am, you’d honor us by 
living with us, I’m sure Martha would do her best to make you 
comfortable; and I’d keep out of your way as much as I could, 
which I reckon would be the best kindness such an awkward 
chap as me could do.” 


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Miss Matty had been very busy with taking off her spectacles, 
wiping them, and replacing them; but all she could say was, 
“Don’t let any thought of me hurry you into marriage: pray 
don’t! Marriage is such a very solemn thing!” 

“But Miss Matilda will think of your plan, Martha,” said I, 
struck with the advantages that it offered, and unwilling to lose 
the opportunity of considering about it. “And I’m sure neither 
she nor I can ever forget your kindness; nor yours either, Jem.” 

“ Why, yes, ma’am ! I’m sure I mean kindly, though I’m a bit 
fluttered by being pushed straight ahead into matrimony, as it 
were, and mayn’t express myself conformable. But I’m sure I’m 
willing enough, and give me time to get accustomed; so, Martha, 
wench, what’s the use of crying so, and slapping me if I come 
near?” 

This last was sotto voce, and had the effect of making Martha 
bounce out of the room, to be followed and soothed by her lover. 
Whereupon Miss Matty sat down and cried very heartily, and ac- 
counted for it by saying that the thought of Martha being mar- 
ried so soon gave her quite a shock, and that she should never 
forgive herself if she thought she was hurrying the poor creature. 
I think my pity was more for Jem, of the two; but both Miss 
Matty and I appreciated to the full the kindness of the honest 
couple, although we said little about this, and a good deal about 
the chances and dangers of matrimony. 

The next morning, very early, I received a note from Miss Pole 
so mysteriously wrapped up, and with so many seals on it to 
secure secrecy, that I had to tear the paper before I could unfold 
it. And when I came to the writing I could hardly understand 
the meaning, it was so involved and oracular. I made out, how- 
ever, that I was to go to Miss Pole’s at eleven o’clock; the number 
eleven being written in full length as well as in numerals, and 
A.M. twice dashed under, as if I were very likely to come at 
eleven at night, when all Cranford was usually abed and asleep 
by ten. There was no signature except Miss Pole’s initials re- 
versed, P. E.; but as Martha had given me the note, “with Miss 
Pole’s kind regards,” it needed no wizard to find out who sent it; 
and if the writer’s name was to be kept secret, it was very well 
that I was alone when Martha delivered it. 


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I went as requested to Miss Pole’s. The door was opened to 
me by her little maid Lizzy, in Sunday trim, as if some grand 
event was impending over this work-day. And the drawing- 
room up-stairs was arranged in accordance with this idea. The 
5 table was set out with the best green card-cloth, and writing 
materials upon it. On the little chiffonier was a tray with a 
newly decanted bottle of cowslip wine, and some lady’s-finger 
biscuits. Miss Pole herself was in solemn array, as if to receive 
visitors, although it was only eleven o’clock. Mrs. Forrester 
10 was there, crying quietly and sadly, and my arrival seemed only 
to call forth fresh tears. Before we had finished our greetings, 
performed with lugubrious mystery of demeanor, there was 
another rat-tat-tat, and Mrs. Fitz-Adam appeared, crimson with 
walking and excitement. It seemed as if this was all the com- 
15 pany expected; for now Miss Pole made several demonstrations 
of being about to open the business of the meeting, by stirring 
the fire, opening and shutting the door, and coughing and blow- 
ing her nose. Then she arranged us all round the table, taking 
care to place me opposite to her; and last of all, she inquired of 
20 me if the sad report was true, as she feared it was, that Miss 
Matty had lost all her fortune ? 

Of course, I had but one answer to make; and I never saw 
more unaffected sorrow depicted on any countenances than I did 
there on the three before me. 

25 “ I wish Mrs. Jamieson was here! ” said Mrs. Forrester at last; 

but to judge from Mrs. Fitz-Adam’s face, she could not second 
the wish. 

“But without Mrs. Jamieson,” said Miss Pole, with just a 
sound of offended merit in her voice, “we, the ladies of Cranford, 
30 in my drawing-room assembled, can resolve upon something. I 
imagine we are none of us what may be called rich, though we all 
possess a genteel competency, sufficient for tastes that are ele- 
gant and refined, and would not, if they could, be vulgarly osten- 
tatious.” (Here I observed Miss Pole refer to a small card con- 
35 cealed in her hand, on which I imagine she had put down a few 
notes.) 

“Miss Smith,” she continued, addressing me (familiarly 
known as “Mary” to all the company assembled, but this was a 


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state occasion), “I have conversed in private — I made it my 
business to do so yesterday afternoon — with these ladies on the 
misfortune which has happened to our friend, and one and all 
of us have agreed that while we have a superfluity, it is not only 
a duty, but a pleasure — a true pleasure, Mary!” — her voice was 
rather choked just here, and she had to wipe her spectacles before 
she could go on — “to give what we can to assist her — Miss 
Matilda Jenkyns. Only in consideration of the feelings of deli- 
cate independence existing in the mind of every refined female” 
— I was sure she had got back to the card now — “we wish to con- 
tribute our mites in a secret and concealed manner, so as not to 
hurt the feelings I have referred to. And our object in request- 
ing you to meet us this morning is that, believing you are the 
daughter — that your father is, in fact, her confidential adviser in 
all pecuniary matters, we imagined that, by consulting with him, 
you might devise some mode in which our contribution could 
be made to appear the legal due which Miss Matilda Jenkyns 

ought to receive from . Probably, your father, knowing her 

investments, can fill up the blank.” 

Miss Pole concluded her address, and looked round for ap- 
proval and agreement. 

“I have expressed your meaning, ladies, have I not? And 
while Miss Smith considers what reply to make, allow me to offer 
you some little refreshment.” 

I had no great reply to make; I had more thankfulness at my 
heart for their kind thoughts than I cared to put into words; and 
so I only mumbled out something to the effect “that I would 
name what Miss Pole had said to my father, and that if anything 
could be arranged for dear Miss Matty” — and here I broke 
down utterly, and had to be refreshed with a glass of cowslip wine 
before I could check the crying which had been repressed for the 
last two or three days. The worst was, all the ladies cried in 
concert. Even Miss Pole cried, who had said a hundred times 
that to betray emotion before any one was a sign of weakness and 
want of self-control. She recovered herself into a slight degree 
of impatient anger, directed against me, as having set them all 
off; and, moreover, I think she was vexed that I could not make 
a speech back in return for hers; and if I had known beforehand 


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what was to be said, and had a card on which to express the 
probable feelings that would rise in my heart, I would have tried 
to gratify her. As it was, Mrs. Forrester was the person to 
speak when we had recovered our composure. 

“I don’t mind, among friends, stating that I — no! I’m not 
poor exactly, but I don’t think I’m what you may call rich; I 
wish I were, for dear Miss Matty’s sake — but, if you please, I’ll 
write down in a sealed paper what I can give. I only wish it was 
more: my dear Mary, I do indeed.” 

Now I saw why paper, pens, and ink were provided. Every 
lady wrote down the sum she could give annually, signed the 
paper, and sealed it mysteriously. If their proposal was acceded 
to, my father was to be allowed to open the papers, under pledge 
of secrecy. If not, they were to be returned to their writers. 

When this ceremony had been gone through, I rose to depart; . 
but each lady seemed to wish to have a private conference with 
me. Miss Pole kept me in the drawing-room to explain why, in 
Mrs. Jamieson’s absence, she had taken the lead in this “move- 
ment,” as she was pleased to call it, and also to inform me that 
she had heard from good sources that Mrs. Jamieson was coming 
home directly in a state of high displeasure against her sister-in- 
law, who was forthwith to leave her house, and was, she believed, 
to return to Edinburgh that very afternoon. Of course this 
piece of intelligence could not be communicated before Mrs. 
Fitz-Adam, more especially as Miss Pole was inclined to think 
that Lady Glenmire’s engagement to Mr. Hoggins could not 
possibly hold against the blaze of Mrs. Jamieson’s displeasure. 
A few hearty inquiries after Miss Matty’s health concluded my 
interview with Miss Pole. 

On coming down-stairs I found Mrs. Forrester waiting for me 
at the entrance to the dining parlor; she drew me in, and when 
the door was shut, she tried two or three times to begin on some 
subject, which was so unapproachable apparently, that I began 
to despair of our ever getting to a clear understanding. At last 
out it came; the poor old lady trembling all the time as if it were 
a great crime which she was exposing to daylight, in telling me 
how very, very little she had to live upon; a confession which she 
was brought to make from a dread lest we should think that the 


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small contribution named in her paper bore any proportion to 
her love and regard for Miss Matty. And yet that sum which 
she so eagerly relinquished was, in truth, more than a twentieth 
part of what she had to live upon, and keep house, and a little 
serving-maid, all as became one bom a Tyrrell. And when the 
whole income does not nearly amount to a hundred pounds, to 
give up a twentieth of it will necessitate many careful economies, 
and many pieces of self-denial, small and insignificant in the 
world’s account, but bearing a different value in another account- 
book that I have heard of. She did so wish she was rich, she 
said, and this wish she kept repeating, with no thought of her- 
self in it, only with a longing, yearning desire to be able to heap 
up Miss Matty’s measure of comforts. 

It was some time before I could console her enough to leave 
her; and then, on quitting the house, I was waylaid by Mrs. Fitz- 
Adam, who had also her confidence to make of pretty nearly the 
opposite description. She had not liked to put down ail that she 
could afford and was ready to give. She told me she thought she 
never could look Miss Matty in the face again if she presumed 
to be giving her so much as she should like to do. ‘“Miss 
Matty!” continued she, “that 1 thought was such a fine young 
lady when I was nothing but a country girl, coming to market 
with eggs and butter and such like things. For my father, 
though well-to-do, would always make me go on as my mother 
had done before me, and I had to come into Cranford every 
Saturday, and see after sales, and prices, and what not. And 
one day, I remember, I met Miss Matty in the lane that leads to 
Combehurst; she was walking on the footpath, which, you know, 
is raised a good way above the road, and a gentleman rode be- 
side her, and was talking to her, and she was looking down at 
some primroses she had gathered, and pulling them all to pieces, 
and I do believe she was crying. But after she had passed, she 
turned round and ran after me to ask — oh, so kindly — about my 
poor mother, who lay on her death-bed; and when I cried she 
took hold of my hand to comfort me — and the gentleman waiting 
for her all the time — and her poor heart very full of something, I 
am sure; and I thought it such an honor to be spoken to in that 
pretty way by the rector’s daughter, who visited at Arley Hall. 


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I have loved her ever since, though perhaps I’d no right to do it; 
but if you can think of any way in which I might be allowed to 
give a little more without any one knowing it I should be so much 
obliged to you, my dear. And my brother would be delighted 
5 to doctor her for nothing — medicines, leeches, and all. I know 
that he and her ladyship (my dear, I little thought in the days I 
was telling you of that I should ever come to be sister-in-law to 
a ladyship!) would do anything for her. We all would.” 

I told her I was quite sure of it, and promised all sorts of 
10 things in my anxiety to get home to Miss Matty, who might well 
be wondering what had become of me — absent from her two 
hours without being able to account for it. She had taken very 
little note of time, however, as she had been occupied in number- 
less little arrangements preparatory to the great step of giving up 
15 her house. It was evidently a relief to her to be doing something 
in the way of retrenchment, for, as she said, whenever she paused 
to think, the recollection of the poor fellow with his bad five- 
pound note came over her, and she felt quite dishonest; only if it 
made her so uncomfortable, what must it not be doing to the 
20 directors of the bank, who must know so much more of the mis- 
ery consequent upon this failure ? She almost made me angry 
by dividing her sympathy between these directors (whom she 
imagined overwhelmed by self-reproach for the mismanagement 
of other people’s affairs) and those who were suffering like her. 
25 Indeed, of the two, she seemed to think poverty a lighter burden 
than self-reproach; but I privately doubted if the directors would 
agree with her. 

Old hoards were taken out and examined as to their money 
value, which luckily was small, or else I don’t know how Miss 
30 Matty would have prevailed upon herself to part with such things 
as her mother’s wedding-ring, the strange, uncouth brooch with 
which her father had disfigured his shirt-frill, etc. However, we 
arranged things a little in order as to their pecuniary estimation, 
and were all ready for my father when he came the next morning. 
35 I am not going to weary you with the details of all the business 
we went through; and one reason for not telling about them is, 
that I did not understand what we were doing at the time, and 
cannot recollect it now. Miss Matty and I sat assenting to ac- 


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counts, and schemes, and reports, and documents, of which I do 
not believe we either of us understood a word; for my father was 
clear-headed and decisive, and a capital man of business, and if 
we made the slightest inquiry, or expressed the slightest want of 
comprehension, he had a sharp way of saying, “Eh? eh? it’s as 
clear as daylight. What’s your objection?” And as we had 
not comprehended anything of what he had proposed, we found 
it rather difficult to shape our objections; in fact, we never were 
sure if we had any. So presently Miss Matty got into a ner- 
vously acquiescent state, and said “Yes,” and “Certainly,” at 
every pause, whether required or not; but when I once joined in 
as chorus to a “Decidedly,” pronounced by Miss Matty in a 
tremblingly dubious tone, my father fired round at me and asked 
me, “ What there was to decide ? ” And I am sure to this day I 
have never known. But, in justice to him, I must say he had 
come over from Drumble to help Miss Matty when he could ill 
spare the time, and when his own affairs were in a very anxious 
state. 

While Miss Matty was out of the room giving orders for 
luncheon — and sadly perplexed between her desire of honoring 
my father by a delicate, dainty meal, and her conviction that she 
had no right, now that all her money was gone, to indulge this 
desire — I told him of the meeting of the Cranford ladies at Miss 
Pole’s the day before. He kept brushing his hand before his 
eyes as I spoke — and when I went back to Martha’s offer the 
evening before, of receiving Miss Matty as a lodger, he fairly 
walked away from me to the window, and began drumming with 
his fingers upon it. Then he turned abruptly round, and said, 
“See, Mary, how a good, innocent life makes friends all around. 
Confound it! I could make a good lesson out of it if I were a par- 
son ; but, as it is, I can’t get a tail to my sentences — only I’m sure 
you feel what I want to say. You and I will have a walk after 
lunch and talk a bit more about these plans.” 

The lunch — a hot savory mutton-chop, and a little of the cold 
loin sliced and fried — was now brought in. Every morsel of this 
last dish was finished, to Martha’s great gratification. Then my 
father bluntly told Miss Matty he wanted to talk to me alone, and 
that he would stroll out and see some of the old places, and then 


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I could tell her what plan we thought desirable. Just before we 
went out, she called me back and said, “Remember, dear, I’m 
the only one left — I mean, there’s no one to be hurt by what I do. 
I’m willing to do anything that’s right and honest; and I don’t 
5 think, if Deborah knows where she is, she’ll care so very much if 
I’m not genteel; because, you see, she’ll know all, dear. Only 
let me see what I can do, and pay the poor people as far as I’m 
able.” 

I gave her a hearty kiss, and ran after my father. The result 
10 of our conversation was this. If all parties were agreeable, 
Martha and Jem were to be married with as little delay as pos- 
sible, and they were to live on in Miss Matty’s present abode; 
the sum which the Cranford ladies had agreed to contribute 
annually being sufficient to meet the greater part of the rent, and 
15 leaving Martha free to appropriate what Miss Matty should pay 
for her lodgings to any little extra comforts required. About the 
sale, my father was dubious at first. He said the old rectory 
furniture, however carefully used and reverently treated, would 
fetch very little; and that little would be but as a drop in the sea 
20 of the debts of the Town and County Bank. But when I repre- 
sented how Miss Matty’s tender conscience would be soothed by 
feeling that she had done what she could, he gave way; especially 
after I had told him the five-pound-note adventure, and he had 
scolded me well for allowing it. I then alluded to my idea that 
25 she might add to her small income by selling tea; and, to my sur- 
prise (for I had nearly given up the plan), my father grasped at 
it with all the energy of a tradesman. I think he reckoned his 
chickens before they were hatched, for he immediately ran up 
the profits of the sales that she could effect in Cranford to more 
30 than twenty pounds a year. The small dining-parlor was to be 
converted into a shop, without any of its .degrading character- 
istics; a table was to be the counter; one window was to be re- 
tained unaltered, and the other changed into a glass door. I 
evidently rose in his estimation for having made this bright sug- 
35 gestion. I only hoped we should not both fall in Miss Matty’s. 

But she was patient and content with all our arrangements. 
She knew, she said, that we should do the best we could for her; 
and she only hoped, only stipulated, that she should pay every 


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farthing that she could be said to owe, for her father’s sake, who 
had been so respected in Cranford. My father and I had agreed 
to say as little as possible about the bank, indeed never to men- 
tion it again, if it could be helped. Some of the plans were evi- 
dently a little perplexing to her; but she had seen me sufficiently 
snubbed in the morning for want of comprehension to venture 
on too many inquiries now; and all passed over well with a hope 
on her part that no one would be hurried into marriage on her 
account. When we came to the proposal that she should sell 
tea, I could see it was rather a shock to her; not on account of 
any personal loss of gentility involved, but only because she dis- 
trusted her own powers of action in a new line of life, and would 
timidly have preferred a little more privation to any exertion for 
which she feared she was unfitted. However, when she saw my 
father was bent upon it, she sighed, and said she would try; and 
if she did not do well, of course she might give it up. One good 
thing about it was, she did not think men ever bought tea; and it 
was of men particularly she was afraid. They had such sharp, 
loud ways with them; and did up accounts, and counted their 
change so quickly 1 Now, if she might only sell comfits to chil- 
dren, she was sure she could please them! 


CHAPTER XV 

A HAPPY RETURN 

Before I left Miss Matty at Cranford everything had been com- 
fortably arranged for her. Even Mrs. Jamieson’s approval of 
her selling tea had been gained. That oracle had taken a few 
days to consider whether by so doing Miss Matty would forfeit 
her right to the privileges of society in Cranford. I think she 
had some little idea of mortifying Lady Glenmire by the decision 
she gave at last; which was to the effect: that whereas a married 
woman takes her husband’s rank by the strict laws of precedence, 
an unmarried woman retains the station her father occupied. 
So Cranford was allowed to visit Miss Matty; and, whether al- 
lowed or not, it intended to visit Lady Glenmire. 


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But what was our surprise — our dismay — when we learned that 
Mr. and Mrs. Hoggins were returning on the following Tuesday. 
Mrs. Hoggins! Had she absolutely dropped her title, and so, in 
a spirit of bravado, cut the aristocracy to become a Hoggins! 
5 She, who might have been called Lady Glenmire to her dying 
day! Mrs. Jamieson was pleased. She said it only convinced 
her of what she had known from the first, that the creature had a 
low taste. But “the creature” looked very happy on Sunday at 
church ; nor did we see it necessary to keep our veils down on that 
10 side of our bonnets on which Mr. and Mrs. Hoggins sat, as Mrs. 
Jamieson did; thereby missing all the smiling glory of his face, 
and all the becoming blushes of hers. I am not sure if Martha 
and Jem looked more radiant in the afternoon, when they, too, 
made their first appearance. Mrs. Jamieson soothed the tur- 
15 bulence of her soul by having the blinds of her windows drawn 
down, as if for a funeral, on the day when Mr. and Mrs. Hoggins 
received callers: and it was with some difficulty that she was pre- 
vailed upon to continue the “St. James’s Chronicle,” so indig- 
nant was she with its having inserted the announcement of the 
20 marriage. 

Miss Matty’s sale went off famously. She retained the furni- 
ture of her sitting-room and bedroom; the former of which she 
was to occupy till Martha could meet with a lodger who might 
wish to take it; and into this sitting-room and bedroom she had 
25 to cram all sorts of things, which were (the auctioneer Assured 
her) bought in for her at the sale by an unknown friend. I 
always suspected Mrs. Fitz-Adam of this; but she must have had 
an accessory, who knew what articles were particularly regarded 
by Miss Matty on account of their associations with her early 
30 days. The rest of the house looked rather bare, to be sure; all 
except one tiny bedroom, of which my father allowed me to pur- 
chase the furniture for my occasional use in case of Miss Matty’s 
illness. 

I had expended my own small store in buying all manner of 
35 comfits and lozenges, in order to tempt the little people whom 
Miss Matty loved so much to come about her. Tea in bright 
green canisters, and comfits in tumblers — Miss Matty and I felt 
quite proud as we looked round us on the evening before the shop 


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was to be opened. Martha had scoured the boarded floor to a 
white cleanness, and it was adorned with a brilliant piece of oil- 
cloth, on which customers were to stand before the table-counter. 
The wholesome smell of plaster and whitewash pervaded the 
apartment. A very small “Matilda Jenkyns, licensed to sell 
tea, ,, was hidden under the lintel of the new door, and two boxes 
of tea, with cabalistic inscriptions all over them, stood ready to 
disgorge their contents into the canisters. 

Miss Matty, as I ought to have mentioned before, had had 
some scruples of conscience at selling tea when there was already 
Mr. Johnson in the town, who included it among his numerous 
commodities; and, before she could quite reconcile herself to the 
'adoption of her new business, she had trotted down to his shop, 
unknown to me, to tell him of the project that was entertained, 
and to inquire if it was likely to injure his business. My father 
called this idea of hers “great nonsense,” and “wondered how 
tradespeople were to get on if there was to be a continual con- 
sulting of each other’s interests, which would put a stop to all 
competition directly.” And, perhaps, it would not have done in 
Drumble, but in Cranford it answered very well ; for not only did 
Mr. Johnson kindly put at rest all Miss Matty’s scruples and 
fear of injuring his business, but I have reason to know he re- 
peatedly sent customers to her, saying that the teas he kept were 
of a common kind, but that Miss Jenkyns had all the choice 
sorts. And expensive tea is a very favorite luxury with well-to- 
do tradespeople and rich farmers’ wives, who turn up their noses 
at the Congou and Souchong prevalent at many tables of gen- 
tility, and will have nothing else than Gunpowder and Pekoe for 
themselves. 

But to return to Miss Matty. It was really very pleasant to 
see how her unselfishness and simple sense of justice called out 
the same good qualities in others. She never seemed to think 
any one would impose upon her, because she should be so grieved 
to do it to them. I have heard her put a stop to the assevera- 
tions of the man who brought her coals by quietly saying, “ I am 
sure you would be sorry to bring me wrong weight;” and if the 
coals were short measure that time, I don’t believe they ever were 
again. People would have felt as much ashamed of presuming 


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on her good faith as they would have done on that of a child. 
But my father says “ such simplicity might be very well in Cran- 
ford, but would never do in the world.” And I fancy the world 
must be very bad, for with all my father’s suspicion of every one 
5 with whom he has dealings, and in spite of all his many pre- 
cautions, he lost upward of a thousand pounds by roguery only 
last year. 

I just stayed long enough to establish Miss Matty in her new 
mode of life, and to pack up the library, which the rector had pur- 
10 chased. He had written a very kind letter to Miss Matty, saying 
“ how glad he should be to take a library, so well selected as he 
knew that the late Mr. Jenkyns’s must have been, at any valua- 
tion put upon them.” And when she agreed to this, with a 
touch of sorrowful gladness that they would go back to the rec- 
15 tory and be arranged on the accustomed walls once more, he sent 
word that he feared that he had not room for them all, and per- 
haps Miss Matty would kindly allow him to leave some volumes 
on her shelves. But Miss Matty said that she had her Bible and 
“Johnson’s Dictionary,” and should not have much time for 
20 reading, she was afraid; still, I retained a few books out of con- 
sideration for the rector’s kindness. 

The money which he had paid, and that produced by the sale, 
was partly expended in the stock of tea, and part of it was in- 
vested against a rainy day — i. e., old age or illness. It was but a 
25 small sum, it is true; and it occasioned a few evasions of truth 
and white lies (all of which I think very wrong indeed — in theory 
— and would rather not put them in practice), for we knew Miss 
Matty would be perplexed as to her duty if she were aware of any 
little reserve fund being made for her while the debts of the bank 
30 remained unpaid. Moreover, she had never been told of the 
way in which her friends were contributing to pay the rent. I 
should have liked to tell her this, but the mystery of the affair 
gave a piquancy to their deed of kindness which the ladies were 
unwilling to give up; and at first Martha had to shirk many a 
35 perplexed question as to her ways and means of living in such a 
house, but by and by Miss Matty’s prudent uneasiness sank 
down into acquiescence with the existing arrangement. 

I left Miss Matty with a good heart. Her sales of tea during 


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the first two days had surpassed my most sanguine expectations. 
The whole country round seemed to be all out of tea at once. 
The only alteration I could have desired in Miss Matty’s way of 
doing business was, that she. should not have so plaintively en- 
treated some of her customers not to buj green tea — running it 
down as slow poison, sure to destroy the nerves, and produce all 
manner of evil. Their pertinacity in taking it in spite of all her 
warnings, distressed her so much that I really thought she would 
relinquish the sale of it, and so lose half her custom; and I was 
driven to my wits’ end for instances of longevity entirely attribu- 
table to a persevering use of green tea. But the final argument, 
which settled the question, was a happy reference of mine to the 
train-oil and tallow candles which the Esquimaux not only enjoy 
but digest. After that she acknowledged that “one man’s meat 
might be another man’s poison,” and contented herself thence- 
forward with an occasional remonstrance when she thought the 
purchaser was too young and innocent to be acquainted with the 
evil effects green tea produced on some constitutions, and an 
habitual sigh when people old enough to choose more wisely 
would prefer it. 

I went over from Drumble once a quarter at least to settle the 
accounts, and see after the necessary business letters. And, 
speaking of letters, I began to be very much ashamed of remem- 
bering my letter to the Aga Jenkyns, and very glad I had never 
named my writing to any one. I only hoped the letter was lost. 
No answer came. No sign was made. 

About a year after Miss Matty set up shop I received one of 
Martha’s hieroglyphics, begging me to come to Cranford very 
soon. I was afraid that Miss Matty was ill and went off that 
very afternoon, and took Martha by surprise when she saw me 
on opening the door. We went into the kitchen, as usual, to 
have our confidential conference, and then Martha told me she 
was expecting her confinement very soon — in a week or two; and 
she did not think Miss Matty was aware of it, and she wanted 
me to break the news to her, “for indeed, miss,” continued 
Martha, crying hysterically, “ I’m afraid she won’t approve of it, 
and I’m sure I don’t know who is to take care of her as she should 
be taken care of when I am laid up.” 


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I comforted Martha by telling her I would remain till she was 
about again, and only wished she had told me her reason for this 
sudden summons, as then I would have brought the requisite 
stock of clothes. But Martha was so tearful and tender-spirited, 
5 and unlike her usual self, that I said as little as possible about 
myself, and endeavored rather to comfort Martha under all the 
probable and possible misfortunes which came crowding upon 
her imagination. 

I then stole out of the house-door, and made my appearance as 
10 if I were a customer in the shop, just to take Miss Matty by sur- 
prise, and gain an idea of how she looked in her new situation. 
It was warm May weather, so only the little half-door was closed; 
and Miss Matty sat behind her counter, knitting an elaborate 
pair of garters; elaborate they seemed to me, but the difficult 
15 stitch was no weight upon her mind, for she was singing in a low 
voice to herself as her needles went rapidly in and out. I call it 
singing, but I dare say a musician would not use that word to the 
tuneless yet sweet humming of the low, worn voice. I found out 
from the words, far more than from the attempt at the tune, that 
20 it was the Old Hundredth she was crooning to herself; but the 
quiet continuous sound told of content, and gave me a pleasant 
feeling, as I stood in the street just outside the door, quite in 
harmony with that soft May morning. I went in. At first she 
did not catch who it was, and stood up as if to serve me; but in 
25 another minute watchful pussy had clutched her knitting, which 
was dropped in eager joy at seeing me. I found, after we had 
had a little conversation, that it was as Martha said, and that 
Miss Matty had no idea of the approaching household event. 
So I thought I would let things take their course, secure that 
30 when I went to her with the baby in my arms, I should obtain 
that forgiveness for Martha which she was needlessly frightening 
herself into believing that Miss Matty would withhold, under 
some notion that the new claimant would require attentions from 
its mother that it would be faithless treason to Miss Matty to 
35 render. 

But I was right. I think that must be an hereditary quality, 
for my father says he is scarcely ever wrong. One morning, 
within a week after I arrived, I went to call Miss Matty, with a 


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little bundle of flannel in my arms. She was very much awe- 
struck when I showed her what it was, and asked for her spec- 
tacles off the dressing-table, and looked at it curiously, with a 
sort of tender wonder at its small perfection of parts. She could 
not banish the thought of the surprise all day, but went about on 
tiptoe, and was very silent. But she stole up to see Martha, and 
they both cried with joy, and she got into a complimentary 
speech to Jem, and did not know how to get out of it again, and 
was only extricated from her dilemma by the sound of the shop- 
bell, which was an equal relief to the shy, proud, honest Jem, 
who shook my hand so vigorously when I congratulated him 
that I think I feel the pain of it yet. 

I had a busy life while Martha was laid up. I attended on 
Miss Matty, and prepared her meals; I cast up her accounts, and 
examined into the state of her canisters and tumblers. I helped 
her, too, occasionally, in the shop; and it gave me no small amuse- 
ment, and sometimes a little uneasiness, to watch her ways there. 
If a little child came in to ask for an ounce of almond-comfits (and 
four of the large kind which Miss Matty sold weighed that much) 
she always added one more by “way of make- weight,” as she 
called it, although the scale was handsomely turned before; and 
when I remonstrated against this, her reply was, “The little 
things like it so much!” There was no use in telling her that 
the fifth comfit weighed a quarter of an ounce, and made every 
sale into a loss to her pocket. So I remembered the green tea, 
and winged my shaft with a feather out of her own plumage. I 
told her how unwholesome almond-comfits were, and how ill 
excess in them might make the little children. This argument 
produced some effect; for, henceforward, instead of the fifth 
comfit, she always told them to hold out their tiny palms, into 
which she shook either peppermint or ginger lozenges, as a pre- 
ventive to the dangers that might arise from the previous sale. 
Altogether the lozenge trade, conducted on these principles, did 
not promise to be remunerative; but I was happy to find she had 
made more than twenty pounds during the last year by her sales 
of tea; and moreover, that now she was accustomed to it, she did 
not dislike the employment, which brought her into kindly inter- 
course with many of the people round about. If she gave them 


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good weight, they, in their turn, brought many a little country 
present to the “old rector’s daughter”; a cream cheese, a few 
new-laid eggs, a little fresh ripe fruit, a bunch of flowers. The 
counter was quite loaded with these offerings sometimes, as she 
told me. 

As for Cranford in general, it was going on much as usual. 
The Jamieson and Hoggins feud still raged, if a feud it could be 
called, when only one side cared much about it. Mr. and Mrs. 
Hoggins were very happy together, and, like most very happy 
people, quite ready to be friendly; indeed, Mrs. Hoggins was 
really desirous to be restored to Mrs. Jamieson’s good graces, 
because of the former intimacy. But Mrs. Jamieson considered 
their very happiness an insult to the Glenmire family, to which 
she had still the honor to belong, and she doggedly refused and 
rejected every advance. Mr. Mulliner, like a faithful clansman, 
espoused his mistress’s side with ardor. If he saw either Mr. or 
Mrs. Hoggins, he would cross the street, and appear absorbed 
in the contemplation of life in general, and his own path in par- 
ticular, until he had passed them by. Miss Pole used to amuse 
herself with wondering what in the world Mrs. Jamieson would 
do, if either she, or Mr. Mulliner, or any other member of her 
household, was taken ill; she could hardly have the face to call 
in Mr. Hoggins after the way she had behaved to them. Miss 
Pole grew quite impatient for some indisposition or accident to 
befall Mrs. Jamieson or her dependants, in order that Cranford 
might see how she would act under the perplexing circumstances. 

Martha was beginning to go about again, and I had already 
fixed a limit, not very far distant, to my visit, when one afternoon, 
as I was sitting in the shop-parlor with Miss Matty — I remember 
the weather was colder now than it had been in May, three 
weeks before, and we had a fire and kept the door fully closed — 
we saw a gentleman go slowly past the window, and then stand 
opposite to the door, as if looking out for the name which we had 
so carefully hidden. He took out a double eye-glass and peered 
about for some time before he could discover it. Then he came 
in. And, all on a sudden, it flashed across me that it was the 
Aga himself! For his clothes had an out-of-the-way foreign cut 
about them, and his face was deep brown, as if tanned and re- 


A HAPPY RETURN 


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tanned by the sun. His complexion contrasted oddly with his 
plentiful snow-white hair, his eyes were dark and piercing, and 
he had an odd way of contracting them and puckering up his 
cheeks into innumerable wrinkles when he looked earnestly at 
objects. He did so to Miss Matty when he first came in. His 
glance had first caught and lingered a little upon me, but then 
turned, with the peculiar searching look I have described, to 
Miss Matty. She was a little fluttered and nervous, but no more 
so than she always was when any man came into her shop. She 
thought that he would probably have a note, or a sovereign at 
least, for which she would have to give change, which was an 
operation she very much disliked to perform. But the present 
customer stood opposite to her, without asking for anything, only 
looking fixedly at her as he drummed upon the table with his 
fin gers, just for all the world as Miss Jenkyns used to do. Miss 
Matty was on the point of asking him what he wanted (as she 
told me afterward), when he turned sharp to me: “Is your name 
Mary Smith?” 

“Yes!” said I. 

All my doubts as to his identity were set at rest, and I only 
wondered what he would say or do next, and how Miss Matty 
would stand the joyful shock of what he had to reveal. Ap- 
parently he was at a loss how to announce himself, for he looked 
round at last in search of something to buy, so as to gain time, 
and, as it happened, his eye caught on the almond-comfits, and 
he boldly asked for a pound of “those things.” I doubt if Miss 
Matty had a whole pound in the shop, and, besides the unusual 
magnitude of the order, she was distressed with the idea of the 
indigestion they would produce, taken in such unlimited quan- 
tities. She looked up to remonstrate. Something of tender re- 
laxation in his face struck home to her heart. She said, “ It is — 
oh sir! can you be Peter ? ” and trembled from head to foot. In 
a moment he was round the table and had her in his arms, sob- 
bing the tearless cries of old age. I brought her a glass of wine, 
for indeed her color had changed so as to alarm me and Mr. 
Peter too. He kept saying, “ I have been too sudden for you, 
Matty — I have, my little girl.” 

I proposed that she should go at once up into the drawing- 


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room and lie down on the sofa there. She looked wistfully at 
her brother, whose hand she had held tight, even when nearly 
fainting; but on his assuring her that he would not leave her, she 
allowed him to carry her up-stairs. 

5 I thought that the best I could do was to run and put the 
kettle on the fire for early tea, and then to attend to the shop, 
leaving the brother and sister to exchange some of the many 
thousand things they must have to say. I had also to break the 
news to Martha, who received it with a burst of tears which 
10 nearly infected me. She kept recovering herself to ask if I was 
sure it was indeed Miss Matty’s brother, for I had mentioned 
that he had gray hair, and she had always heard that he was a 
very handsome young man. Something of the same kind per- 
plexed Miss Matty at tea-time, when she was installed in the 
15 great easy-chair opposite to Mr. Jenkyns’s in order to gaze her 
fill. She could hardly drink for looking at him, and as for eating, 
that was out of the question. 

“I suppose hot climates age people very quickly,” said she, 
almost to herself. “ When you left Cranford you had not a gray 
20 hair in your head.” 

“But how many years ago is that?” said Mr. Peter, smiling. 

“Ah, true! yes, I suppose you and I are getting old. But 
still I did' not think we were so very old! But white hair is very 
becoming to you, Peter,” she continued — a little afraid lest she 
25 had hurt him by revealing how his appearance had impressed 
her. 

“ I suppose I forgot dates, too, Matty, for what do you think 
I have brought for you from India ? I have an India muslin 
gown and a pearl necklace for you somewhere in my chest at 
30 Portsmouth.” He smiled as if amused at the idea of the incon- 
gruity of his presents with the appearance of his sister; but this 
did not strike her all at once, while the elegance of the articles 
did. I could see that for a moment her imagination dwelt com- 
placently on the idea of herself thus attired; and instinctively she 
35 put her hand up to her throat — that little delicate throat which 
(as Miss Pole had told me) had been one of her youthful charms; 
but the hand met the touch of folds of soft muslin in which she 
was always swathed up to her chin, and the sensation recalled a 


A HAPPY RETURN 


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sense of the unsuitableness of a pearl necklace to her age. She 
said, “Pm afraid Pm too old; but it was very kind of you to 
think of it. They are just what I should have liked years ago — 
when I was young.” 

“So I thought, my little Matty. I remembered your tastes; 
they were so like my dear mother’s.” At the mention of that 
name the brother and sister clasped each other’s hands yet more 
fondly, and, although they were perfectly silent, I fancied they 
might have something to say if they were unchecked by my 
presence, and I got up to arrange my room for Mr . Peter’s oc- 
cupation that night, intending myself to share Miss Matty’s bed. 
But at my movement he started up. “I must go and settle 
about a room at the ‘George.’ My carpet-bag is there too.” 

“No!” said Miss Matty, in great distress — “you must not go; 
please, dear Peter — pray, Mary — oh! you must not go!” 

She was so much agitated that we both promised everything 
she wished. Peter sat down again and gave her his hand, which 
for better security she held in both of hers, and I left the room to 
accomplish my arrangements. 

Long, long into the night, far, far into the morning, did Miss 
Matty and I talk. She had much to tell me of her brother’s life 
and adventures, which he had communicated to her as they had 
sat alone. She said all was thoroughly clear to her; but I never 
quite understood the whole story; and when in after days I lost 
my awe of Mr. Peter enough to question him myself, he laughed 
at my curiosity, and told me stories that sounded so very much 
like Baron Munchausen’s, that I was sure he was making fun of 
me. What I heard from Miss Matty was that he had been a 
volunteer at the siege of Rangoon; had been taken prisoner by 
the Burmese; had somehow obtained favor and eventual freedom 
from knowing how to bleed the chief of the small tribe in some 
case of dangerous illness; that on his release from years of cap- 
tivity he had had his letters returned from England with the 
ominous word “Dead” marked upon them; and, believing him- 
self to be the last of his race, he had settled down as an indigo 
planter, and had proposed to spend the remainder of his life in 
the country to whose inhabitants and modes of life he had become 
habituated, when my letter had reached him; and, with the odd 


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vehemence which characterized him in age as it had done in 
youth, he had sold his land and all his possessions to the first 
purchaser, and come home to the poor old sister, who was more 
glad and rich than any princess when she looked at him. She 
5 talked me to sleep at last, and then I was awakened by a slight 
sound at the door, for which she begged my pardon as she crept 
penitently into bed; but it seems that when I could no longer con- 
firm her belief that the long-lost was really here — under the same 
roof — she had begun to fear lest it was only a waking dream of 
10 hers; that there never had been a Peter sitting by her all that 
blessed evening — but that the real Peter lay dead far away be- 
neath some wild sea wave, or under some strange eastern tree. 
And so strong had this nervous feeling of hers become, that she 
was fain to get up and go and convince herself that he was really 
15 there by listening through the door to his even, regular breathing 
— I don’t like to call it snoring, but I heard it myself through 
two closed doors — and by and by it soothed Miss Matty to sleep. 

I don’t believe Mr. Peter came home from India as rich as a 
nabob; he even considered himself poor, but neither he nor Miss 
20 Matty cared much about that. At any rate, he had enough to 
live upon “very genteelly” at Cranford; he and Miss Matty to- 
gether. And a day or two after his arrival the shop was closed, 
while troops of little urchins gleefully awaited the shower of com- 
fits and lozenges that came from time to time down upon their 
25 faces as they stood up-gazing at Miss Matty’s drawing-room 
windows. Occasionally Miss Matty would say to them (half 
hidden behind the curtains), “My dear children, don’t make 
yourselves ill”; but a strong arm pulled her back, and a more 
rattling shower than ever succeeded. A part of the tea was sent 
30 in presents to the Cranford ladies; and some of it was distributed 
among the old people who remembered Mr. Peter in the days of 
his frolicsome youth. The India muslin gown was reserved for 
darling Flora Gordon (Miss Jessie Brown’s daughter). The 
Gordons had been on the Continent for the last few years, but 
35 were now expected to return very soon; and Miss Matty, in her 
sisterly pride, anticipated great delight in the joy of showing 
them Mr. Peter. The pearl necklace disappeared; and about 
that time many handsome and useful presents made their appear- 


PEACE TO CRANFORD 


1G9 


ance in the households of Miss Pole and Mrs. Forrester; and 
some rare and delicate Indian ornaments graced the drawing- 
rooms of Mrs. Jamieson and Mrs. Fitz-Adam. I myself was not 
forgotten. Among other things, I had the handsomest bound 
and best edition of Dr. Johnson’s. works that could be procured; 
and dear Miss Matty, with tears in her eyes, begged me to con- 
sider it as a present from her sister as well as herself. In short, 
no one was forgotten; and, what was more, every one, however 
insignificant, who had shown kindness to Miss Matty at any 
time, was sure of Mr. Peter’s cordial regard. 

CHAPTER XVI 

PEACE TO CRANFORD 

It was not surprising that Mr. Peter became such a favorite at 
Cranford. The ladies vied with each other who should admire 
him most; and no wonder, for their quiet lives were astonish- 
ingly stirred up by the arrival from India — especially as the per- 
son arrived told more wonderful stories than Sindbad the Sailor; 
and, as Miss Pole said, was quite as good as an Arabian Night 
any evening. For my own part, I had vibrated all my life be- 
tween Drumble and Cranford, and I thought it was quite possible 
that all Mr. Peter’s stories might be true, although wonderful; 
but when I found that, if we swallowed an anecdote of tolerable 
magnitude one week, we had the dose considerably increased the 
next, I began to have my doubts; especially as I noticed that 
when his sister was present the accounts of Indian life were com- 
paratively tame; not that she knew more than we did, perhaps 
less. I noticed also that when the rector came to call, Mr. Peter 
talked in a different way about the countries he had been in. 
But I don’t think the ladies in Cranford would have considered 
him such a wonderful traveller if they had only heard him talk in 
the quiet way he did to him. They liked him the better, indeed, 
for being what they called “so very Oriental.” 

One day, at a select party in his honor, which Miss Pole gave, 
and from which, as Mrs. Jamieson honored it with her presence, 
and had even offered to send Mr. Mulliner to wait, Mr. and Mrs. 


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Hoggins and Mrs. Fitz-Adam were necessarily excluded — one 
day at Miss Pole’s, Mr. Peter said he was tired of sitting upright 
against the hard-backed uneasy chairs, and asked if he might not 
indulge himself in sitting cross-legged. Miss Pole’s consent was 
eagerly given, and down he went with the utmost gravity. But 
when Miss Pole asked me, in an audible whisper, “ if he did not 
remind me of the Father of the Faithful?” I could not help 
thinking of poor Simon Jones, the lame tailor, and while Mrs. 
Jamieson slowly commented on the elegance and convenience 
of the attitude, I remembered how we had all followed that lady’s 
lead in condemning Mr. Hoggins for vulgarity because he simply 
crossed his legs as he sat still on his chair. Many of Mr. Peter’s 
ways of eating were a little strange amongst such ladies as Miss 
Pole, and Miss Matty, and Mrs. Jamieson, especially when I 
recollected the untasted green peas and two-pronged forks at 
poor Mr. Holbrook’s dinner. 

The mention of that gentleman’s name recalls to my mind a 
conversation between Mr. Peter and Miss Matty one evening in 
the summer after he returned to Cranford. The day had been 
very hot, and Miss Matty had been much oppressed by the 
weather, in the heat of which her brother revelled. I remember 
that she had been unable to nurse Martha’s baby, which had be- 
come her favorite employment of late, and which was as much at 
home in her arms as in its mother’s, as long as it remained a 
light-weight, portable by one so fragile as Miss Matty. This day 
to which I refer, Miss Matty had seemed more than usually feeble 
and languid, and only revived when the sun went down, and her 
sofa was wheeled to the open window, through which, although 
it looked into the principal street of Cranford, the fragrant smell 
of the neighboring hayfields came in every now and then, borne 
by the soft breezes that stirred the dull air of the summer twilight, 
and then died away. The silence of the sultry atmosphere was 
lost in the murmuring noises which came in from many an open 
window and door; even the children were abroad in the street, 
late as it was (between ten and eleven), enjoying the game of 
play for which they had not had spirits during the heat of the day. 
It was a source of satisfaction to Miss Matty to see how few 
candles were lighted, even in the apartments of those houses from 


PEACE TO CRANFORD 


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which issued the greatest signs of life. Mr. Peter, Miss Matty, 
and I had all been quiet, each with a separate reverie, for some 
little time, when Mr. Peter broke in: 

“ Do you know, little Matty, I could have sworn you were on 
the high-road to matrimony when I left England that last time! 
If anybody had told me you would have lived and died an old 
maid then, I should have laughed in their faces.” 

Miss Matty made no reply, and I tried in vain to think of 
some subject which should effectually turn the conversation; but 
I was very stupid; and before I spoke he went on: 

“It was Holbrook, that fine manly fellow who lived at Wood- 
ley, that I used to think would carry off my little Matty. You 
would not think it now, I dare say, Mary; but this sister of mine 
was once a very pretty girl — at least, I thought so, and so I’ve a 
notion did poor Holbrook. What business had he to die before 
I came home to thank him for all his kindness to a good-for- 
nothing cub as I was ? It was that that made me first think he 
cared for you; for in all our fishing expeditions it was Matty, 
Matty, we talked about. Poor Deborah! What a lecture she 
read me on having asked him home to lunch one day, when she 
had seen the Arley carriage in the town, and thought that my 
lady might call. Well, that’s long years ago; more than half a 
lifetime, and yet it seems like yesterday! I don’t know a fellow 
I should have liked better as a brother-in-law. You must have 
played your cards badly, my little Matty, somehow or another — 
wanted your brother to be a good go-between, eh, little one?” 
said he, putting out his hand to take hold of hers as she lay on 
the sofa. “Why, what’s this? you’re shivering and shaking, 
Matty, with that confounded open window. Shut it, Mary, this 
minute!” 

I did so, and then stooped down to kiss Miss Matty, and see if 
she really were chilled. She caught at my hand, and gave it a 
hard squeeze — but unconsciously, I think — for in a minute or 
two she spoke to us quite in her usual voice, and smiled our un- 
easiness away, although she patiently submitted to the prescrip- 
tions we enforced of a warm bed and a glass of weak negus. I 
was to leave Cranford the next day, and before I went I saw that 
all the effects of the open window had quite vanished. I had 


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superintended most of the alterations necessary in the house and 
household during the latter weeks of my stay. The shop was 
once more a parlor; the empty resounding rooms again furnished 
up to the very garrets. 

5 There had been some talk of establishing Martha and Jem in 
another house, but Miss Matty would not hear of this. Indeed, 
I never saw her so much roused as when Miss Pole had assumed 
it to be the most desirable arrangement. As long as Martha 
would remain with Miss Matty, Miss Matty was only too thank- 
10 ful to have her about her; yes, and Jem too, who was a very 
pleasant man to have in the house, for she never saw him from 
week’s end to week’s end. And as for the probable children, if 
they would all turn out such little darlings as her god-daughter, 
Matilda, she should not mind the number, if Martha didn’t. 
15 Besides, the next was to be called Deborah — a point which Miss 
Matty had reluctantly yielded to Martha’s stubborn determina- 
tion that her first-born was to be Matilda. So Miss Pole had to 
lower her colors, and even her voice, as she said to me that, as Mr. 
and Mrs. Hearn were still to go on living in the same house with 
20 Miss Matty, we had certainly done a wise thing in hiring Martha’s 
niece as an auxiliary. 

I left Miss Matty and Mr. Peter most comfortable and con- 
tented; the only subject for regret to the tender heart of the one, 
and the social friendly nature of the other, being the unfortunate 
25 quarrel between Mrs. Jamieson and the plebeian Hogginses and 
their following. In joke, I prophesied one day that this would 
only last until Mrs. Jamieson or Mr. Mulliner were ill, in which 
case they would only be too glad to be friends with Mr. Hoggins; 
but Miss Matty did not like my looking forward to anything like 
30 illness in so light a manner, and before the year was out all had 
come round in a far more satisfactory way. 

I received two Cranford letters on one auspicious October 
morning. Both Miss Pole and Miss Matty wrote to ask me to 
come over and meet the Gordons, who had returned to England 
35 alive and well with their two children, now almost grown up. 
Dear Jessie Brown had kept her old kind nature, although she 
had changed her name and station; and she wrote to say that she 
and Major Gordon expected to be in Cranford on the fourteenth, 


PEACE TO CRANFORD 


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and she hoped and begged to be remembered to Mrs. Jamieson 
(named first, as became her honorable station), Miss Pole, and 
Miss Matty — could she ever forget their kindness to her poor 
father and sister ? — Mrs. Forrester, Mr. Hoggins (and here again 
came in an allusion to kindness shown to the dead long ago), his 
new wife, who as such must allow Mrs. Gordon to desire to 
make her acquaintance, and who was, moreover, an old Scotch 
friend of her husband’s. In short, every one was named, from 
the rector — who had been appointed to Cranford in the interim 
between Captain Brown’s death and Miss Jessie’s marriage, 
and was now associated with the latter event — down to Miss 
Betty Barker. All were asked to the luncheon; all except Mrs. 
Fitz-Adam, who had come to live in Cranford since Miss Jessie 
Brown’s days, and whom I found rather moping on account of 
the omission. People wondered at Miss Betty Barker’s being 
included in the honorable list; but, then, as Miss Pole said, we 
must remember the disregard of the genteel proprieties of life in 
which the poor captain had educated his girls, and for his sake 
we swallowed our pride. Indeed, Mrs. Jamieson rather took it 
as a compliment, as putting Miss Betty (formerly her maid) on a 
level with “those Hogginses.” 

But when I arrived in Cranford, nothing was as yet ascer- 
tained of Mrs. Jamieson’s own intentions; would the honorable 
lady go, or would she not ? Mr. Peter declared that she should 
and she would; Miss Pole shook her head and desponded. But 
Mr. Peter was a man of resources. In the first place, he per- 
suaded Miss Matty to write to Mrs. Gordon, and to tell her of 
Mrs. Fitz-Adam’s existence, and to beg that one so kind, and 
cordial, and generous, might be included in the pleasant invita- 
tion. An answer came back by return of post, with a pretty 
little note for Mrs. Fitz-Adam, and a request that Miss Matty 
would deliver it herself and explain the previous omission. Mrs. 
Fitz-Adam was as pleased as could be, and thanked Miss Matty 
over and over again. Mr. Peter had said, “Leave Mrs. Jamie- 
son to me”; so we did; especially as we knew nothing that we 
could do to alter her determination if once formed. 

I did not know, nor did Miss Matty, how things were going on, 
until Miss Pole asked me, just the day before Mrs. Gordon came, 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 

35 


5 

10 

15 

20 

25 

30 

35 


174 


CRANFORD 


if I thought there was anything between Mr. Peter and Mrs. 
Jamieson in the matrimonial line, for that Mrs. Jamieson was 
really going to the lunch at the “George.” She had sent Mr. 
Mulliner down to desire that there might be a footstool put to 
the warmest seat in the room, as she meant to come, and knew 
that their chairs were very high. Miss Pole had picked this 
piece of news up, and from it she conjectured all sorts of things, 
and bemoaned yet more. “ If Peter should marry, what would 
become of poor dear Miss Matty? And Mrs. Jamieson, of all 
people!” Miss Pole seemed to think there were other ladies in 
Cranford who would have done more credit to his choice, and I 
think she must have had some one who was unmarried in her 
head, for she kept saying: “It was so wanting in delicacy in a 
widow to think of such a thing.” 

When I got back to Miss Matty’s I really did begin to think 
that Mr. Peter might be thinking of Mrs. Jamieson for a wife, 
and I was as unhappy as Miss Pole about it. He had the proof 
sheet of a great placard in his hand. “Signor Brunoni, Magi- 
cian to the King of Delhi, the Rajah of Oude, and the great 
Lama of Thibet,” etc., etc., was going to “perform in Cranford, 
for one night only,” the very next night; and Miss Matty, ex- 
ultant, showed me a letter from the Gordons, promising to re- 
main over this gayety, which Miss Matty said, was entirely 
Peter’s doing. He had written to ask the signor to come, and 
was to be at all the expenses of the affair. Tickets were to be 
sent gratis to as many as the room would hold. In short, Miss 
Matty was charmed with the plan, and said that to-morrow 
Cranford would remind her of the Preston Guild, to which she 
had been in her youth — a luncheon at the “George,” with the 
dear Gordons, and the signor in the Assembly Room in the even- 
ing. But I — I looked only at the fatal words: 

“ Under the Patronage of the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson.” 

She, then, was chosen to preside over this entertainment of 
Mr. Peter’s; she was perhaps going to displace my dear Miss 
Matty in his heart, and make her life lonely once more! I could 
not look forward to the morrow with any pleasure; and every 


PEACE TO CRANFORD * 175 

innocent anticipation of Miss Matty’s only served to add to my 
annoyance. 

So, angry and irritated, and exaggerating every little incident 
which could add to my irritation, I went on till we were all assem- 
bled in the great parlor at the “George.” Major and Mrs. 5 
Gordon and pretty Flora and Mr. Ludovic were all as bright and 
handsome and friendly as could be; but I could hardly attend to 
them for watching Mr. Peter, and I saw that Miss Pole was 
equally busy. I had never seen Mrs. Jamieson so roused and 
animated before; her face looked full of interest in what Mr. 10 
Peter was saying. I drew near to listen. My relief was great 
when I caught that his words were not words of love, but that, 
for all his grave face, he was at his old tricks. He was telling 
her of his travels in India, and describing the wonderful height 
of the Himalaya mountains: one touch after another added to 15 
their size, and each exceeded the former in absurdity; but Mrs. 
Jamieson really enjoyed all in perfect good faith. I suppose she 
required strong stimulants to excite her to come out of her apathy. 

Mr. Peter wound up his account by saying that, of course, at that 
altitude there were none of the animals to be found that existed 20 
in the lower regions; the game — everything was different. Fir- 
ing one day at some flying creature, he was very much dismayed, 
when it fell, to find that he had shot a cherubim! Mr. Peter 
caught my eye at this moment, and gave me such a funny 
twinkle, that I felt sure he had no thoughts of Mrs. Jamieson as 25 
a wife from that time. She looked uncomfortably amazed: 

“But, Mr. Peter, shooting a cherubim — don’t you think — I 
am afraid that was sacrilege!” 

Mr. Peter composed his countenance in a moment, and ap- 
peared shocked at the idea, which, as he said truly enough, was 30 
now presented to him for the first time; but then Mrs. Jamieson 
must remember that he had been living for a long time among 
savages — all of whom were heathens — some of them, he was 
afraid, were downright Dissenters. Then, seeing Miss Matty 
draw near, he hastily changed the conversation, and after a little 35 
while, turning to me, he said, “Don’t be shocked, prim little 
Mary, at all my wonderful stories. I consider Mrs. Jamieson 
fair game, and besides I am bent on propitiating her, and the 


176 


CRANFORD 


first step towards it is keeping her well awake. I bribed her 
here by asking her to let me have her name as patroness for my 
poor conjurer this evening; and I don’t want to give her time 
enough to get up her rancor against the Hogginses, who are just 
5 coming in. I want everybody to be friends, for it harasses 
Matty so much to hear of these quarrels. I shall go at it again 
by and by, so you need not look shocked. I intend to enter the 
Assembly Room to-night with Mrs. Jamieson on one side, and 
my lady, Mrs. Hoggins, on the other. You see if I don’t.” 

10 Somehow or another he did ; and fairly got them into conversa- 
tion together. Major and Mrs. Gordon helped at the good work 
with their perfect ignorance of any existing coolness between any 
of the inhabitants of Cranford. 

Ever since that day there has been the old friendly sociability 
15 in Cranford society; which I am thankful for, because of my dear 
Miss Matty’s love of peace and kindliness. We all love Miss 
Matty, and I somehow think we are all of us better when she is 
near us. 


NOTES 

CHAPTER I 

Page 3, Line 1 — Cranford. Under this name Mrs. Gaskell 
writes of Knutsford, a quaint old town in Cheshire, near Man- 
chester. 

— Amazons. A race of female warriors, alleged by Herod- 
otus and others to exist in Scythia. 

3, 8 — Drumble. Under this name Mrs. Gaskell refers to 
Manchester. The word means in the Scottish dialect confused, 
muddy, hoarse, and aptly suggests a modern manufacturing 
city. 

4, 10 — Miss Tyler. An unidentified allusion. 

4, 11 — gigot. (Pron. zhe go'). (Fr., gigot , leg-of-mutton.) 

A name applied to a sleeve full at the shoulder and tight from 
wrist to elbow. 

4, 26. — Manx. Belonging to the Isle of Man, off the west 
coast of England. Tinwald Mount is a little artificial hill be- 
tween Douglas and Peel on the Isle of Man. The hill is said to 
have been originally composed of earth taken from all of the 
seventeen parishes of the island. It is circular in form, 240 
feet in circumference, and consists of five terraces. Both 
legislative assemblies and courts of justice were once held on 
this hill. On July 5 Tinwald Day is still observed. The Gov- 
ernor, as representative of the sovereign, sits on the top of the 
mound with his face to the east, the laws passed by the Council 
and Keys during the past twelve months are read out, and the 
legislators and the people stand around the hill. 

6, 9 — Spartans. An allusion to the well-known Spartan vir- 
tue of endurance. A Spartan could smile whatever tortures 
he might be undergoing. 

6, 13 — esprit de corps. (Fr., pron. es pre' de cor'.) The regard 
entertained by the members of a body for the honor and in- 
terests of the body as a whole, and of each other as belonging 
to it. (N. E. D.) 


177 


178 


CRANFORD 


5, 21 — servants’ hall. Servants’ dining-room. 

5, 35 — pattens. Overshoes or sandals worn to raise the ordi- 
nary shoes out of the wet. Since the seventeenth century the 
patten consists of a wooden sole secured to the foot by a leather 
loop passing over the instep, and mounted on an oval ring, or 
similar device. (N. E. D.) 

6, 3 — Honorable. A courtesy title given to younger children 
of earls and to sons (and their wives) and daughters of viscounts 
and barons. Mrs. Jamieson got the title from her husband, a 
younger son of the late Lord Glenmire. 

6, 9 — sourgrapeism. An impromptu expression suggested 
by the attitude of the fox in iEsop’s fable of the Fox and 
Grapes toward the grapes that were beyond reach, and there- 
fore sour. 

6, 17 — half-pay captain. A retired military officer. Officers 
in the British Army and Navy, when not in actual service or 
after retirement at a prescribed time, are allowed half or full 
pay. 

6, 22 — sent to Coventry. Ignored socially. N. E. D. accepts 
as a possible origin of the explanation: “At Birmingham, a 
town so generally wicked that it had risen upon small parties 
of the king’s men and taken them prisoners and sent them to 
Coventry ” (then strongly held for the Parliament). (Clarendon, 
“ History of the Rebellion,” vi, 83 [1647].) 

6, 29 — sedan-chair. A conveyance for one person, made of 
a wooden body, carried by two bearers by means of poles thrust 
through rings on the sides. 

6, 30 — print. A cheap cotton fabric, stamped with a colored 
pattern. 

7, 4 — tabooed. Forbidden. (Originally an expression of 
the South Sea Islanders, tapu, meaning set apart as forbidden 
or sacred.) 

9, 5 — double eye-glass. A pair of lenses to be carried in the 
hand or kept on the nose with a spring. 

9, 8 — clerk. The clerk, or parish clerk, is the lay officer of a 
parish church, who has charge of the church and its precincts, 
and assists the clergyman in various parts of his duties, e. g., by 
leading the people in responses, assisting at baptisms, marriages, 
etc. (N. E. D.) 

9, 37 — Preference. A game resembling whist in which the 
trump is determined by bidding. (N. E. D.) For the card 
games popular in Cranford see 74, 23, n. 


NOTES 


179 


10, 4 — egg-shell. Fine and very thin china. 

10, 25 — spinnet. (Pron. spin et'.) A small stringed instru- 
ment, essentially similar to the harpsichord, but smaller, and 
lighter in tone; a forerunner of the piano. 

— Jock of Hazeldean. Sir Walter Scott’s version of the 
old ballad of “Jock o’ Hazelgreen,” sung to the same tradi- 
tional air. 

10, 31 — apropos. (Pron. ah pro po'.) To the point or pur- 
pose, pertinent, opportune (Fr., a propos ); here loosely used in 
the sense of “with regard to.” 

11, 11 — The Pickwick Papers. “The Posthumous Papers of 
the Pickwick Club.” A series of humorous sketches, written 
by Charles Dickens under the pen-name of Boz. They were 
published in shilling numbers in 1836. 

11, 13 — rector. Title of the clergyman of the Anglican 
parish of Cranford. 

11, 22 — Dr. Johnson. Dr. Samuel Johnson (1709-1784), the 
greatest literary figure of the eighteenth century, was the 
author of the famous English Dictionary, and an essayist, 
moralist, poet, and novelist. His “Rasselas” (12, 3), a story 
ostensibly of Abyssinia, is really an excursion in imaginative 
sociology, the theme of which is that no lot in life is without 
its ills and drawbacks. The “Rambler” (12, 15), March, 1750, 
to March, 1752, was a periodical conducted by Johnson. Mrs. 
Gaskell herself had no objection to serial publication, as 
“Cranford” itself came out in parts. (See Preface.) 

11, 36 — “swarry.” Sam Weller’s version of the French 
soiree , an evening party. The account is given in the thirty- 
ninth chapter of “Pickwick.” 

— Sam Weller. The inimitable servant of Mr. Pickwick, 
the president of the Pickwick Club. 

12, 6 — Boz. The pen-name of Charles Dickens in his first 
sketches, e. g., “Sketches by Boz,” 1824. “Boz, my signature 
in the ‘Morning Chronicle,’ appended to the monthly cover of 
this book, and retained long afterward, was the nickname of a 
pet child, a younger brother, whom I had dubbed Moses, in 
honor of the Vicar of Wakefield; which being facetiously pro- 
nounced through the nose, became Boses, and being shortened, 
became Boz.” (Charles Dickens, Preface to “Pickwick Pa- 
pers.”) 

12, 7 — Rasselas and Imlac. Rasselas was the prince and hero 
in the story; Imlac, the poet and traveller, was his companion. 


180 


CRANFORD 


12, 25 — forte. Strong point. The absolute use of Fr. fort , 
strong. As in many other adoptions of French adjectives as 
substantives, the feminine form has been ignorantly substituted 
for the masculine. (N. E. D.) 

12, 33 — sotto voce. (Pron. sot' to vo' tchay.) Italian. In an 
undertone. Literally, “under the voice.” 


CHAPTER II 

13, 15 — bakehouse. An allusion to a custom, of the poor of 
taking their dinner to the bake-shop to be cooked. 

14, 22 — Brutus wig. A wig in the style of a Brutus — the 
hair was brushed back from the forehead, and worn first in 
disorder, afterward in close curls. The fashion seems to have 
originated in Paris during the Revolution, and to have been 
named for the hero of antiquity; introduced into England, 
the style lasted longer than in France. 

15, 3 — au fait. (Pron. o fay'.) French — thoroughly conver- 
sant with, informed about. In modern colloquial speech, 
“ posted.” 

15, 19 — Deborah. (English pron., deb' o rah.) The Hebrew 
prophetess. See Judges iv and v. The pronunciation Deb o'- 
rah approximates the correct Hebrew. 

15, 36 — quondam. (Latin, formerly.) In English used 
adjectively — “ old-time.” 

16, 1 — plumed wars. A loose quotation from Shakespeare, 
“Othello,” III, iii, 349: 

“ Farewell the plumfed troop and the big wars.” 

16, 4 — misnomered Cape of Good Hope. Its real character is 
better indicated by the name “Cape of Storms,” given it by 
Bartholomew Diaz in 1487. 

16, 13 — Brunonian. An adjective derived from the Latin- 
ized form of Brown. It was first applied to a system or theory 
of medicine founded by Dr. John Brown (1735-1788). Miss 
Jenkyns’s epistolary style is flavored with Johnsonese — in plain 
English she meant “took his meals with the Browns.” 

16, 18 — “feast of reason and the flow of soul.” A loose refer- 
ence to the line, “The feast of reason and the flow of soul.” 
(Pope, “Imitations of Horace,” Satire i, 128.) 


NOTES 


181 


16, 20 — “the pure wells of English undefiled.” A loose refer- 
ence to the line, “Dan Chaucer, well of English undefiled.” 
(Spenser, “Faerie Queene,” IV, ii, 32.) 

17, 19 — a “raw.” A raw place in the skin; here figurative. 
19, 1 — pot-pourri. (Fr., pron. po poo re'.) A mixture of 

dried petals of j*oses or other flowers with spices and perfumes. 
It is usually kept in jars for its fragrance. 

19, 11 — three-piled. Having a triple pile or nap, as a thick, 
costly kind of velvet; here figurative. 

21, 18 — following it to the grave. In England it is not cus- 
tomary for women to follow the body to the grave. 

25, 32 — Galignani. The name of a family of journalists of 
Italian extraction. The reference here is to “Galignani’s Mes- 
senger,” an English periodical published by them in Paris. It 
was founded in 1814, and circulated widely among English 
people living on the Continent. 

26, 30 — Old Poz. A little play by Maria Edgeworth, now 
included in the collection called “The Parents’ Assistant.” 
Lucy is the daughter of an irascible old gentleman. Miss 
Jenkyns’s failing mind confused “Boz” and “Poz.” 

26, 33 — Christmas Carol. The best-known of Dickens’s 
“Christmas Stories.” It was published in 1843. 


CHAPTER III 

27, 5 — Hortus Siccus. (Lat., “dry garden.”) A herbarium. 

30, 10 — two wine glasses. A polite suggestion of their aris- 
tocratic custom of serving two wines at dinner. 

32, 35 — Blue Beard. The hero of one of the best-known 
of the French stories of Charles Perrault, published, 1697, 
under the title, “Stories of the Olden Time.” 

33, 5 — Scandinavian prophetess. Hela, a character in 
Thomas Gray’s “Descent of Odin,” a translation from the 
Norse. 

33, 13 — “pride which apes humility.” This occurs in the 
poem by Coleridge, called “The Devil’s Thoughts,” — “And the 
devil did grin, for his darling sin Is pride that apes humility.” 
Also in Southey’s version, “The Devil’s Walk,” — “And he 
owned with a grin That his favorite sin Is pride that apes 
humility.” 

33, 16 — Esq. “The designation ‘esquire’ is now commonly 


182 


CRANFORD 


understood to be due by courtesy to all persons (not in clerical 
orders or having any higher rank) who are regarded as ‘ gentle- 
men ’ by birth, position, or education. It is used only on occa- 
sions of more or less ceremonious mention and in addresses of 
letters.” (N. E. D.) 

33, 18 — yeoman. “ In recent English use on& owning (and 
usually himself cultivating) a small landed property.” * (Cent. 
Die.) 

34, 27 — Don Quixote. (In Eng. usually pron. quiz' ot ; Sp., 
ke ho' te.) The hero of the great Spanish romance of the same 
name by Cervantes, printed in Madrid (1605-1615). He is 
described in the opening chapter: “The age of our gentleman 
bordered upon fifty years; he was of a strong constitution, spare- 
bodied, of a meagre visage, a very early riser, and a lover of the 
chase.” 

35, 1 — sarsenet. (Pron. sars' net.) A fine, thin silk stuff, 
plain or twilled, especially valued for its softness. It was a 
favorite material down to 1820. Perhaps derived from Sara- 
cenus ( pannus ), Saracen cloth. 


CHAPTER IV 

35, 27 — named. Mentioned. 

36, 28 — fly. A one-horse carriage hired from a livery stable 
and not plying for hire. 

36, 23 — gilly-flowers. (Pron. /{%-flowers.) 

37,2 — George Herbert. (1593-1632.) A poet and clergyman 
of the Church of England, the author of some of the finest 
sacred lyrics in the language. 

37, 6 — Byron. George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824), 
the most striking and popular of the early Romantic poets of 
the nineteenth century. 

37, 7 — Goethe. (Pron. almost gay' tah .) Johann Wolfgang 
von Goethe, the most illustrious of German writers — dramatist, 
poet, and novelist. The quotation, “ Ye ever verdant palaces,” 
is part of the description of the forests in storm on the Brocken 
(“Faust,” Sc. xxi). 

37, 30 — weird tales. The allusion is to the “Gothic ” ro- 
mances such as Walpole’s “Castle of Otranto” or Mrs. Rad- 
cliffe’s “ Mysteries of Udolpho. ” The popularity of these stories 
is one of the characteristics of the English Romantic movement, 


NOTES 


183 


of which Mr. Holbrook was a disciple, as is further witnessed 
by his interest in the poetry of Byron and his delight in the 
nature allusions of Tennyson. 

38, 14 — “No broth, no ball; no ball, no beef.” This is a com- 
mon alliterative Yorkshire saying. The ball was the round 
suet dumpling cooked with the meat. 

38, 26 — Amine. (Pron. am' i rie.) A character in “The 
Arabian Nights,” who ate but a few grains of rice, picking them 
up with a bodkin. Her husband discovered that this lack of 
appetite was owing to the fact that she was a ghoul — an evil 
spirit who nightly gorged on the flesh of dead men. 

39, 21 — calashes. A calash was a woman’s hood made of 
silk, supported with whalebone or cane hoops, and projecting 
beyond the face. (See Chapter VII.) 

39, 32 — “The cedar spreads.” A loose quotation of a line in 
Tennyson’s “The Gardener’s Daughter”: “A cedar spread his 
dark-green layers of shade.” 

40, 1 — “Blackwood.” “Blackwood’s Edinburgh Maga- 
zine,” founded 1817 by the Edinburgh publisher, Blackwood. 
The reference here is to the article by “Christopher North” 
(John Wilson), 1832, on Tennyson’s poems of 1832. 

40, 3 — not in the way. Not available. 

40, 11 — Black as ashbuds in March. A part of another line in 
“The Gardener’s Daughter”: “More black than ashbuds in the 
front of March.” 

40, 24 — Locksley Hall. One of the most popular of Tenny- 
son’s early poems, first published in the volumes of 1842. 

42, 31 — sadly off her food. This is a gentle modification of 
the bucolic description of a horse that has lost his appetite. 

42, 37 — cosset. Pet, indulge. 


CHAPTER V 

46, 17 — Joint-Stock Bank. A bank formed on the basis of a 
joint-stock, or capital contributed and owned by a number of 
persons jointly, who shared the profits and also the liabilities 
of the bank. 

46, 24 — envelopes. Envelopes began to be used in England 
and the United States in the decade from 1840 to 1850. In 
both countries their use for letter mail followed the introduc- 
tion of cheap postage. (International Encyclopaedia.) 


184 


CRANFORD 


47, 4 — India-rubber rings. Rubber bands. 

47, 25 — blind man’s holiday. A proverbial name for late 
twilight. 

48, 22 — Tonquin bean. The Tonga or Tonka bean. The 
seed of the cuamara ( Dipterix odorata ), a tall tree of Venezuela 
and Guiana. The seeds are almond-shaped and very fragrant; 
they are used in the manufacture of perfumes. 

49, 16 — full-bottomed. Wide at the bottom. 

— with gown, ^cassock, and bands. That is, as he preached. 
As an evangelical parson of the early nineteenth century the 
rector, arrayed in a cassock (an ecclesiastical coat-like garment, 
buttoning down the front and reaching the feet) and bands 
(a pair of lawn strips hanging down over the collar in front) 
would remove his white surplice after reading the service, 
and don a Geneva gown, of academic rather than ecclesiastical 
form, before mounting the pulpit. 

49, 22 — assize time. The time of the assizes, or sessions, held 
periodically in each county of England for the purpose of ad- 
ministering civil and criminal justice,— an important event in the 
county town. 

49, 31 — Paduasoy. A strong corded or grosgrain silk fabric, 
much worn in the eighteenth century by both sexes. It is 
perhaps an English corruption of peau de sole, a say, or serge, 
of Padua. 

61, 24 — dum memor ipse, etc. A quotation from Vergil, 
“iEneid,” iv, 336: “As long as I remember my own self, as long 
as the breath of life rules these limbs.” (Tr. Lonsdale and 
Lee.) 

61, 32 — carmen. L., poem or song. Carmina, pi., is another 
name for the “ Odes ” of Horace. 

61, 37 — Gentleman’s Magazine. A periodical founded by 
Edward Cave, a printer, in 1731. “It was intended to collect 
within its pages the essays and intelligence contained in the 
four hundred sheets which the London and provincial press 
threw off monthly.” (H. D. Traill, “Social England.”) 

62, 2 — M. T. Ciceronis Epistolae. L., “The Letters of Mar- 
cus Tullius Cicero,” — the famous letters of Cicero to his 
friends. 

63, 9 — Mrs. Chapone. Hester Chapone (1727-1801). A lit- 
erary lady whose essays — “ Letters on the Improvement of the 
Mind” (1773) — became a standard work on the education of 
women. 


NOTES 


185 


63, 11— Mrs. Carter. Elizabeth Carter (1717-1806). She 
was unmarried, but the title of Mistress (Mrs.) was until the 
nineteenth century applied as a title of respect to unmarried 
as well as to married women. She was a famous linguist and 
translated the sayings of Epictetus, the Greek philosopher, into 
English. She was also a friend of Dr. Johnson, who once 
remarked of some eminent scholar, “He understood Greek 
better than anyone I have ever known except Elizabeth 
Carter.” 

63, 14 — fashed. A dialect expression for “vexed,” “both- 
ered.” Used in Scotland and in the northern counties of Eng- 
land, including Cheshire. 

63, 33 — Miss Edgeworth’s “Patronage." A novel by Maria 
Edgeworth (1767-1849). Chapter VIII contains the incident 
alluded to. “Lord Oldborough had sent his grace (the Duke 
of Greenwich) a note, written in his own hand, sealed with a 
wafer. The clerk, who was present when the note was re- 
ceived, said that the duke’s face flushed violently, and that 
he flung the note immediately to his secretary, exclaiming, 
‘Open that, if you please, sir. I wonder how any man can 
have the impertinence to send me his spittle! ’ ” The duke ex- 
pected, of course, that the missive would have been sealed 
with wax and a signet. 

63, 35 — frank. The right of a Member of Parliament to 
send a letter post free by virtue of his name or initials on the 
cover. In the days of high postage the privilege was valuable, 
and the member’s friends saw that he used it; it still exists. 

64, 9 — sesquipedalian. Literally a word so long that it con- 
tained a Latin metrical foot and a half. Horace used the 
term sesquipedalia verbq to signify very long words — colloquially 
“ j&w-breakers.” (L., “of a foot and a half.”) 

64, 11 — Herod. The Tetrarch of Idumea and son of Herod 
the Great. He was responsible for the beheading of John the 
Baptist. (See Matt., xiv, 1; Mark, vi, 14 ff.) 

64, 19 — invasion of Buonaparte. In 1803-04, when Napoleon 
was assembling a great flotilla at Boulogne with the intention 
of conveying an invading army to England, his name became a 
byword of terror, for the danger was very real. “Widow 
Garland’s thoughts were those of the period. ‘Can it be the 
French?’ she said, arranging herself for the extremest form of 
consternation. ‘ Can that arch-enemy of mankind have landed 
at last?’ It should be stated that at this time there were two 


186 


CRANFORD 


arch-enemies of mankind — Satan as usual, and Buonaparte, 
who had sprung up and eclipsed his elder rival altogether” 
(Thomas Hardy, “The Trumpet Major”). 

54, 34 — Boy and the Wolf. In the iEsopic fable the boy 
cried “Wolf! ” on several occasions, so that he was not believed 
when the wolf really appeared. 

56, 13 — Apollyon and Abaddon. Abaddon (Heb., “de- 
stroyer”), the proper name of a prince of the infernal regions; 
in Greek, Apollyon. Cf. Rev., ix, 11. 

55, 35 — Bonus Bernardus, etc. Lat., “The good (St.) 
Bernard does not see everything.” St. Bernard (1091-1153) 
reformed the Cistercian order of monks, but something would 
be overlooked even by the greatest. 

65, 36 — Proverbia. Lat. pi. of Proverbium — a collection of 
proverbs in Latin. 


CHAPTER VI 

56, 15 — Shrewsbury. One of the most famous of the gram- 
mar schools (American “academies”) of Edward VI, at Shrews- 
bury, an old market-town, some fifty miles from Knutsford, on 
the river Severn. The school, which was founded in 1531, 
occupied its old buildings until 1882. 

66, 16 — living. A benefice or holding in the Established 
Church of England, often in the gift of the nobility, and con- 
ferred by them on relatives and friends. 

67, 29 — Assize Sermon. See note on assize time, 49, 22. 

68, 13 — St. James Chronicle. In 1724 the “St. James Post” 
and the “St. James Evening Post,” both dating from 1815, 
were fused with the “St. James Chronicle,” the liveliest paper 
of the period. (International Encyclopaedia.) 

58, 34 — shovel-hat. A broad-brimmed, black hat, turned up 
at the sides and projecting in front, worn by clergymen of the 
Church of England. (Century Dictionary.) 

59, 20 — lilies of the field. Cf. Matt., vi, 28. 

60, 32 — Queen Esther and King Ahasuerus. King Ahasuerus 
was the Oriental despot whose presence might not be approached 
without permission. For Esther see the Book of Esther. 

62, 20 — weir. Usually a dam; here, particularly, a fence of 
twigs or stakes set in a stream for catching fish. 

64, 1 — post-horses. Horses kept at an inn for the convey- 
ance of travellers. 


NOTES 


187 


65, 6 — overland route. Great Britain opened a mail route to 
India across the Isthmus of Suez in 1837. Though mostly by 
sea it was called “ overland ” as against that round the Cape. 

66, 15 — India shawl. A cashmere shawl (Cent. Die.). The 
shawls made in Kashmir in the N. W. of Hindustan are pre- 
eminent among fabrics for their fineness of texture and bril- 
liant and harmonious coloring. They are very costly and were 
at one time extremely fashionable. “ Cachemire shawls with a 
white ground, and a pattern of colored flowers or green foliage 
are now much worn in outdoor costume, especially for the 
morning walk.” (Fashion book of 1827, cited by D. C. Cal- 
throp, “English Costume.”) 

66, 36— some great war in India. The war with the Ghurkas 
(1814-1816), or the third and last Mahratta war (1817). 


CHAPTER VII 

67, 20 — cap with yellow ribbons. Toward the close of the 
eighteenth century, and for the first half of the nineteenth, the 
cap was a most important detail of every lady’s dress. The 
turban cap enjoyed a high degree of favor, possibly because it 
suggested the popular Orientalism of “Lalla Rookh.” (See 
124, 4, n.) In the “ Ladies’ Cabinet of Fashion, Music, and 
Romance” for 1832 we are assured that “Caps are a very gen- 
eral accessory to home dress.” New fashions in caps are there 
duly chronicled. The imposing character of some of these 
structures, even of those intended for morning wear, may be 
gathered from the following items: “Morning caps are of white 
tulle, the trimming of the front wide at the sides, narrow and 
short at the ears, and partially crossed upon the forehead.” 
“Caps of gauffred tulle are coming much into favor for social 
parties. The flowers that trim these caps are in general light 
slender sprigs of exotics.” “Turbans are fashionable, but not 
so much so as blonde lace caps: the trimming of these caps is 
arranged in the style of a butterfly’s wings, and intermingled 
with light sprigs of flowers.” “Turbans of the Jewish form 
trimmed with the plumage of the birds of Paradise are most 
fashionable in evening dress.” 

68, 10 — elite. (Pron. a leet'.) (Fr., literally “chosen.”) 
The choice part, or flower, of society or of any body or class of 
persons. (N. E. D.) 


188 


CRANFORD 


68, 15 — universal shop. American “general store.” 

68, 18 — Mounseers. Mounseer is an antiquated anglicized 
form of the Fr. monsieur which survived as a vulgarism down 
to the nineteenth century. The correct Fr. pi. of monsieur is 
messieurs (pron. ma se yeti'). 

68, 19 — Queen Adelaide. Adelaide of Saxe-Coburg Meiningen, 
queen of William IV. 

68, 34 — gig. A light two-wheeled one-horse carriage. To 
keep one was a sign of respectability; cf. “Respectability that 
always keeps her gig” (Carlyle, “Diamond Necklace”). 

69, 3 — passee. (Fr., proi^ pah sa'.) Past, out of date, 
superseded. 

69, 14 — receipt. “Receipt,” in the sense of directions for 
household processes, has always been and still is the best Eng- 
lish as compared with “recipe,” which is properly a medical 
prescription. 

69, 35 — pool. The set of players to take part in the game. 
For the card games played in Cranford, see note 74, 23. 

71, 14 — bombazine. A twilled dress material part silk and 
part worsted; in black it was much used for mourning. 

71, 20 — patent of gentility. Letters patent from the sover- 
eign conferring the title or privilege of nobility; here figurative 
— a sign or token of a certain social standing. 

71, 25 — general officer. A military officer above the rank of 
colonel. 

— American war. The War of 1812. 

71, 27 — boards. Figurative for stage. 

71, 29 — Drury Lane. Drury Lane Theatre, opened 1663; 
the most famous London theatre of the eighteenth century, at 
which Garrick, Kean, the Kembles, and Mrs. Siddons shone. 

71, 38 — Fitz. Old Norman-Fr. for mod. Fr. fils , son; it 
occurs chiefly in patronymics. 

72, 8 — two little ff’s. In English manuscripts (charters, rec- 
ords, etc.) the small / was sometimes doubled to serve for the 
capital F of modern usage. To write one’s name with two 
little ff’s was, therefore, to boast the antiquity of one’s family. 

72, 20 — ci-devant. (Pron. se de van(g)'.) Fr., former, 
heretofore. 

73, 23 — Prince Albert’s near the Queen’s. The smaller throne 
of the Prince Consort of Queen Victoria. 

73, 38 — mal-apropos. (Pron. mal ah pro po'.) Fr., inoppor- 
tune, inappropriate; cf. “apropos,” 10, 31. 


NOTES 189 

74, 15 — Savoy biscuits. Light sponge biscuits resembling 
lady-fingers. 

74, 18 — seed-cake. Cake containing caraway seeds. 

74, 23 — Cranford ladies at cards. Cranford was as far behind 
the rest of the world in the matter of cards as in that of sleeves, 
skirts, and pattens. Ombre, a game of cards borrowed from 
Spain, was popular in the early years of the eighteenth century. 
It was usually played by three persons, though sometimes by 
four or five. The pack had forty cards, eights, nines, and tens 
being thrown out. 

Her joy in gilded Chariots, when alive. 

And love of Ombre, after death survive. 

— Pope, “Rape of the Lock.” 

About 1726 quadrille, also played with forty cards, replaced 
ombre as a fashionable game. Later it was, in its turn, super- 
seded by whist. In 1823 Charles Lamb said of Sarah Battle, 
“Quadrille, she has often told me, was her first love; but whist 
had engaged her maturer esteem.” “Spadille,” “manille,” and 
“basto” are the names of certain cards in the ombre and 
quadrille -packs. The “pool” is the collective amount of the 
stakes and fines of the players joining in the game. To make 
up a pool is to form the party or requisite number of players 
for a game in which there is a pool. For the game of prefer- 
ence, see 9, 37 n. Cribbage is peculiar, in allowing the dealer 
to make up a third hand partly out of the cards held by his 
opponent. 

74, 38 — “basting.” “To baste” is a term of quadrille and 
ombre, meaning “to get the better of,” “defeat”; also spelled 
beast. N. E. D. asserts the pronunciation of both to be beast. 

76, 12 — mandarin. A toy representing a grotesque figure in 
Chinese costume, so contrived as to continue nodding a long 
time after it is shaken. (N. E. D.) 

76, 32 — Baron. The lowest order of peers. 

76, 38 — lobby. A narrow passageway. 

77, 5 — Hogarth. William Hogarth (1697-1764), the famous 
English painter and engraver, “ a pictorial chronicler of life and 
manners, a satirist and humorist on canvas.” (Dictionary 
National Biography.) 


190 


CRANFORD 


CHAPTER VIII 

77, 23 — Peerage. Nobility. 

78, 31 — county families. Gentry having estates and an an- 
cestral seat in the county. 

79, 13 — Scotch baron. Scotland has her own peerage, inde- 
pendent of Great Britain. Only representative peers of Scot- 
land, sixteen in number, are admitted to the House of Lords. 

79, 14 — Peerage. A book containing a list of peers with their 
genealogy, history, connections, titles, etc. Particularly 
Burke’s “Peerage,” first published 1826. 

80, 10 — nipped up. Picked up quickly. 

82, 22 — like ostriches. The notion that ostriches consider 
themselves safe if only their heads are hidden goes back to Pliny’s 
“Natural History”: “If they thrust their head and neck once 
into any shrub or bush, and get it hidden, they think then they 
are safe enough, and that no man seeth them ” (Tr. Holland). 

82, 37 — Scotch pebbles. Agates. 

84, 20 — style, Louis Quatorze. A style of furniture which 
came into vogue in the reign of Louis XIV of France. Novelty 
and magnificence are its distinguishing features; it is inlaid with 
metal, ivory, enamels, etc., and has incrustations of broken 
scroll-work. 

84, 30 — Pembroke table. A table supported on four fixed 
legs, having two hinged side portions or flaps, which can be 
spread out horizontally and supported on legs connected with 
the central part by joints. (N. E. D.) 

84, 31 — conversation-cards, puzzle-cards. The nature of these 
is unidentified. 

86, 2 — Stonehenge. A celebrated circle of large stones on 
Salisbury Plain, Wiltshire. Their purpose — religion, justice, or 
battle — is uncertain. They are of ancient British origin. 

85, 17 — “a Lord and No Lord.” “ Apparently the title of an 
old ballad. The following entry occurs in the catalogue of 
the British Museum: ‘ “Lord and no Lord” (that is, Henry St. 
John, Viscount Bolingbroke) and Squire Squat (that is, W. 
Pulteney), an excellent new ballad to an old tune. London, 
1726.’” (F. T. Baker.) 

86, 26 — savoir faire. (Pron. sah vwar fare'.) Fr., literally 
“to know (how) to do,” — the faculty of knowing just what to 
do and how to do it. (Century Dictionary.) 


NOTES 


191 


86, 29 — minniken. Small, undersized. (Dialect.) 

87, 17-20 — Preference, Ombre, Quadrille, Basto, Spadille. See 

74, 23, n. 

87, 34 — Catholic Emancipation Bill. A bill in Parliament 
passed 1829, removing from Roman Catholics their disabilities, 
and giving them back the right to hold public office. 

89, 25— Francis Moore. An astrologer and almanac-maker. 
In 1700 he published his “Vox Stellarum,” containing weather 
predictions, etc. The publication continues under the name 
of “ Old Moore’s Almanac.” 


CHAPTER IX 

90, title — Signor. (Pron. sen ' yor.) Ital., Mr. 

— Brunoni. Italian for Brown would be Bruno; the 

augmentative, if used, would be Brunone. 

90, 18 — from Michaelmas to Lady-day. September 29 to 
March 25. The English quarter-days for entering or quitting 
lands or houses or for paying rent are: Lady-day (the Annuncia- 
tion of the Virgin), March 25; Midsummer’s-day (Nativity of 
St. John Baptist), June 24; Michaelmas (day of St. Michael), 
September 29; Christmas-day. 

90, 19 — turbans. See 67, 20, n. 

90, 21 — Wombwell. George Wombwell (1773-1850) was the 
founder of the famous Wombwell Menageries, in their day the 
finest travelling collection of animals in the United Kingdom. 

91, 6 — Saracen’ s-head turban. Such a turban as adorns the 
Moor depicted on many old inn signs, due, no doubt, to the 
coats-of-arms of old families that fought in the East. (See 
“Spectator,” No. 122.) 

92, 1 — reel of cotton. American, spool of thread. 

92, 17 — “George.” An inn on King Street, Knutsford. Its 
assembly room has massive chandeliers and a tiny musicians’ 
gallery. “Miss Matty and her party probably entered this 
room from the George Yard, by a winding staircase passing 
through the circular cloak-room ” (G. A. Payne, “Knutsford ”). 

92, 22 — menuets de la cour. (Pron. men ew a ' de la koor'.) 
Court minuets — slow, ceremonious dances; two people in each 
figure dance to music in three-four time. 

92, 25 — clothes-maid. Clothes-horse. Dialect; still in use in 
Cheshire. 


192 


CRANFORD 


92, 31 — Thaddeus of Warsaw. The title of a very popular 
romance by Jane Porter (1776-1850). 

92, 32 — The Hungarian Brothers. The title of a romance by 
Anna Maria Porter (1781-1832), sister of Jane Porter. 

- — Santo Sebastiani. A reference to ‘‘Don Sebastian,” 
also written by Anna Maria Porter. 

93, 24 — rose. The proverb is: “I am not the rose, but I have 
lived near the rose.” It is widespread in modern literature. It 
goes back to the Persian, Sadi’s “Gulistan,” or “Rose Garden,” 
where the perfumed clay says: “Worthless earth was I, but 
long I kept the rose’s company” (Tr. N. H. Dole). 

93, 29 — Witch of Endor. A woman soothsayer consulted by 
Saul just before his last conflict with the Philistines. (See 1. 
Samuel, xxvm.) 

93, 30 — death-watches. A popular name of various insects, 
particularly beetles, which make a noise like the ticking of a 
watch, supposed by the ignorant and superstitious to portend 
death. (N. E. D.) 

93, 36 — winding sheets. Solidified drippings of grease from a 
candle which cling to the side and present some resemblance to 
drapery. The appearance of this has been fancied to resemble 
the sheet in which a corpse is wrapped, and hence it is regarded 
as an omen of death or other misfortune. 

95, 21 — Queen Charlotte. Charlotte Sophia of Meoklenburg- 
Strelitz, queen of George III. 

95, 22 — Gunnings. Elizabeth Gunning, afterward Duchess 
of Hamilton, and her sister Maria, afterward Countess of 
Coventry. They were famous beauties of the eighteenth cen- 
tury. 

95, 24 — Lady Williams. “The Lady Williams of the story no 
doubt represents the actual Lady Daniel of Over Tabley Hall, 
who married John Astley, the portrait painter.” (G. A. Payne, 
“Knutsford.”) 

96, 31 — chapeau bras. (Fr., pron. sha pd brah'.) A small, 
three-cornered, flat silk hat which could be carried under the 
arm, worn by gentlemen at court or in full dress in the eight- 
eenth century. 

Next march the hatters, once a gainful trade, 

When men wore finest beavers on the head; 

But now, lest weight of that the curl should harm, 

Beaux strut about with beaver under arm. 

-“Poem on the Trades of Dublin,” 1762. (Cited in “Cos- 
tumes in England,” Fairholt.) 


NOTES 


193 


96, 16 — old tapestry story. Unidentified. 

97, 35 — legerdemain. Fr., literally “light of hand,” sleight 
of hand, jugglery. 

98, 15 — church-warden. In England one of two lay officers 
of a parish or district church, elected to assist the incumbent 
in the discharge of his administrative duties. 

98, 23 — National School. One of the schools established by 
the National Society, founded in 1811 by members of the 
Church of England to promote the education of the poor. 
For the first thirty years of their existence their curriculum 
did not go much beyond Bible reading, the catechism, and 
some industrial training. 


CHAPTER X 

99,16 — bona-fide. (Lat., “in good faith.”) Genuine. 

99, 27 — valiance. Bravery, valor. 

100, 22 — General Burgoyne. John Burgoyne (1722-1792), 
dramatist and general; commander of the British forces during 
the Revolutionary War; surrendered to General Gates at Sara- 
toga, October 17, 1777. 

100, 37 — Madame de Stael. Anne Louis Germaine (1776- 
1817), daughter of the French minister of finance, Jacques 
Necker, and wife of the Swedish Baron de Stael-Holstein, — a 
famous French wit, social leader, and authoress. Her best- 
known work is the novel, “Corinne.” 

100, 38 — Mr. Denon. Baron Dominique Denon (1747-1825), 
a French engraver and archaeologist. 

101, 17 — wildfire. Lit., a composition of inflammable ma- 
terials, readily catching fire and hard to extinguish; Greek fire. 

102, 33 — Philomel. A poetic name for the nightingale. Ac- 
cording to the Greek myth Philomela, daughter of Pandion, 
was changed into a nightingale. The story alluded to is in 
“The Lover’s Melancholy,” by John Ford (1586-1639 ?). 
Menaphon, a returned traveller, relates an experience in the 
vale of Tempe, Thessaly, how a youth with a lute and a night- 
ingale contested their skill as musicians; the bird, unable to 
produce the chords of the lute, fell dead heart-broken. 

103, 10 — Italian irons. Irons for fluting ruffles. 

103, 21 — spillikins. Jackstraws. 

103, 34 — “where nae men should be.” Quotation from the 


194 


CRANFORD 


old folk-ballad, “Our Goodman.” (F. J. Child, “English and 
Scotch Popular Ballads,” No. 274.) 

105, 26 — Cheltenham. — A town in the West of England, near 
Gloucester; its saline springs draw many visitors. 

106, 10 — elf locks. A tangled mass of hair, superstitiously 
attributed to the agency t>f elves, especially of Queen Mab. 

106, 16 — virago. (Pron. vir a'go.) A bold, impudent woman; 
a termagant. 

109, 2 — videlicet. (Pron. vi del' i set.) To wit; namely. 
(L. for videre licet , it is permitted to see.) 

110, 14 — cold-pigged. Waked up by being soused with cold 
water; colloquial. 

110, 28 — Dr. Ferrier. John Ferrier or Ferriar (1761-1815), 
author of a paper, “ Of Popular Illusions, and more particularly 
of Modern Demonology.” 

110, 29 — Dr. Hibbert. Samuel Hibbert-Ware (1782-1848), 
a geologist and antiquary of Manchester. He had the degree 
of M.D. of Edinburgh. He was the author of “Sketches of the 
Philosophy of Apparitions, or an Attempt to Trace such Illu- 
sions to their Physical Causes.” 1824. 

110, 36 — Not all the elder wine. Cf. “ Richard II,” III, ii, 55 — 

‘‘Not all the water in the rough rude sea 
Can wash the balm off from an anointed king.” 

— mulled. Made into a warm drink with the addition 
of sugar, spices, beaten yolk of egg, etc. (N. E. D.) 

111, 30 — mutes. A mute is a professional attendant at a 
funeral, a hired mourner. 


CHAPTER XI 

114, 29 — Jack’s up. The knave is the turn up. Jack is a 
quasi-vulgarism for knave; cf. “He calls the knaves Jacks, this 
boy, said Estelle, with great disdain.” (Dickens, “Great Ex- 
pectations,” Chap, vm.) 

114, 30 — fig for his heels. The dealer, in cribbage, counts 
two when the knave is the turn up, technically known as “ two 
for his heels.” Mr. Hoggins speaks contemptuously of this 
small chance score. 

114, 37— physician-in-ordinary. Physician in regular at- 
tendance at the court. 


NOTES 


195 


116, 2 — Lord Chesterfield. Philip Dormer Stanhope, fourth 
Earl of Chesterfield (1694-1773), courtier, orator, and wit; his 
fame as an author rests on his “ Letters to his Son,” which teach 
the manners of a gentleman as conceived in the eighteenth 
century. 

116, 35 — a Tyrrell. Sir Walter Tyrrell, either by accident or 
intention, shot William Rufus, while hunting, 1100. Another 
Tyrrell, Sir James, was the tool of Richard III in murdering 
the York princes in the Tower, his nephews, the young sons of 
Edward IV, who stood between him and the throne. ( Cf . 
Shakespeare, “Richard III.”) 

117, 27 — vamped-up. Concocted; made for the occasion, and 
poorly made. 

119, 2 — charges. The official instructions or admonitions 
given by a bishop or archdeacon to his clergy. 

119, 18 — I dream sometimes that I have a little child. With 
this passage should be read Charles Lamb’s “Dream Children,” 
“Essays of Elia.” 

120, 3 — Signora. (Pron. sen yor' a.) It., Mrs. 

121, 15 — picture. A print of Raphael’s Madonna della Sedia 
(Madonna of the Chair), a round painting, of which the original 
is in the Pitti Palace in Florence. Tradition says that Raphael, 
attracted by a mother whom he saw in the country, made a 
painting of them on the smooth end of a wine cask which stood 
at hand. 

122, 30 — Chunderabaddad. No such place is mentioned in 
the usual gazetteers. The word is a coinage. 

122, 31 — Aga. Originally a military title in the Ottoman 
Empire meaning a chief officer, but also used as a general title 
of distinction. (Turkish, agha, master.) 

123, 2 — Great Lama. The Dala-i Lama, chief of the Bud- 
dhist priests of Thibet; he lives in strict seclusion and is wor- 
shipped with almost divine honors. 


CHAPTER XII 

123, 10 — piece de resistance. (Pron. pe ess ' de ra zes tah(n)s'.) 
Fr., the chief dish at a meal, the principal feature. 

123, 11 — “cut and come again.” That is, they are not satis- 
fied with one helping. 

123, 19 — passage in Dickens. “Pickwick Papers,” Chap. 


196 


CRANFORD 


xxxiii. At Mr. Bob Sawyer’s evening party; “The chorus 
was the essence of the song, and, as each gentleman sang it to 
the tune he knew best, the effect was very striking indeed.” 

124, 4 — “Lalla Rookh.” An Oriental romance in verse by 
Thomas Moore, published in 1817. It consists of four tales 
connected by a slight narrative. The first of these is “The 
Veiled Prophet of Khorassan.” Moore expended an enormous 
amount of work on the local color, and the poem gained imme- 
diate popularity, adding to the glamour concerning things 
Oriental which originated with Lord Byron’s poetry. For thirty 
years after its publication — “Caliphs and Djinns, Brahmins and 
Circassians, rioted through English verse; mosques and sera- 
glios were the stage properties of English fiction. . . . Harems 
and slave-markets and sad, slender Arab girls thrilled our grand- 
mothers’ kind hearts” (Agnes Repplier, “When Lalla Rookh 
was Young”). 

124, 8 — Rowlands’ Kalydor. A proprietary perfume the 
name of which is based on the Greek, “beautiful water.” 

124, 9 — hair oils. This was the period of “thine ‘ incom- 
parable oil’ Macassar” (Byron, “Don Juan,” Canto i), when 
every good housewife protected her chairs with “antimacas- 
sars.” See Lewis Carroll, “Through the Looking Glass,” Chap, 
vm, for “Rowlands’ Macassar oil.” 

124, 11 — Peruvian bonds. Peruvian independence was at- 
tained in 1820, but it was 1849 before Peru resumed payment 
of interest on the public debt. 

124, 35 — piece of poetry. Dr. Johnson’s “Vanity of Human 
Wishes,” which begins: 

Let observation, with extensive view, 

Survey mankind from China to Peru. 

127, 5 — Tibbie Fowler. The name of a Scottish song as- 
cribed to Dr. S. Strachan, but founded on an older version, and 
printed in “ Scottish Song,” Robert Chambers, 1828. It begins: 
“Tibbie Fowler o’ the Glen, There’s ower mony woing at her.” 
The theme is, that the homeliest girl will not lack suitors if she 
only have money. The lines quoted are in the last stanza but 
one. 

127, 7 — Tintock Tap. That is, the top of Tintock Mountain, 
usually called Tinto, in Lanarkshire, in the valley of the upper 
Clyde, not far from Lanark. 

127, 8 — till. To, — Scottish dialect. 


NOTES 197 

127, 34 — mesalliance. (Pron. ma zah le a(n)s'.) Fr., a 
marriage with a person of inferior social position. 

129, 14 — merinoes and beavers. Winter garments made of 
merino, a soft woollen material, and of beaver, a felted cloth 
used for overcoats. 

129, 36 — Queen of Spain’s legs. An allusion to the story 
that on the arrival of the bride of Philip IV of Spain (Princess 
Maria Anna of Austria), a quantity of silk stockings was pre- 
sented to her by a city famed for their manufacture. The 
majordomo of the future queen rejected the gift with indigna- 
tion, saying, “ Know that the Queen of Spain has no legsl ” 
(Walsh, “Handy Book of Literary Curiosities.”) 


CHAPTER XIII 

131, 6 — welly. Almost; a contraction of “wellnigh.” Dia- 
lect (Wright). 

— stawed. A Cheshire dialect word meaning “ stuffed ”; 
literally, “stalled,” brought to a standstill. 

131, 23 — dragoon. Cavalry soldier. 


CHAPTER XIV 

141, 29 — Rubric. A direction in the Book of Common 
Prayer for the order to be followed in divine service, formerly 
printed in red. (Lat., ruber, red.) 

142, 23 — good missus . . . good servant. Cf. the speech of 
Andrew Fairservice: “If your honor disna ken when ye hae a 
gude servant, I ken when I hae a gude master, and the deil be 
in my feet gin I leave ye.” (Scott, “Rob Roy,” Chap, xxiv.) 

*144, 7 — caste. The system of rigid social distinctions in a 
community; to lose caste is to descend in the social scale. 

144, 14 — “Ah! Vous dirai-je, maman?" “Ah, shall I tell 
you, mamma?” “The first line of a pretty little song called 
‘La Confidence/ set to an extremely simple air.” (Sampson.) 

144, 23 — use of the globes. The study of the terrestrial and 
celestial globes, formerly an important part of the education 
of a young lady, usually set forth in the prospectus of the 
school. 


198 


CRANFORD 


144, 35 — Black Art. The art of performing supernatural acts 
by intercourse with the spirits of the dead or with the devil 
himself; necromancy. (N. E. D.) 

146, 20 — couchant. (Pron. kowtsh'ant.) A heraldic term; 
used of an animal lying with the body resting on the legs. 

146, 33 — East India Tea Company. The East India Com- 
pany in the early part of the nineteenth century introduced the 
cultivation of tea into India. 

147, 24 — oaf. A simpleton; cf. “elf.” 

147, 38 — an-axing. “Axe” is dialect for “ask.” “A-” is 
frequently prefixed to verbs in dialect: (a-beating), before 
vowels an-. 

160, 6 — chiffonier. A piece of furniture consisting of a 
small cupboard with the top made so as to form a sideboard. 

167, 20 — comfits. Almond or caraway-seeds dipped in 

sugar. 

CHAPTER XV 

168, 2 — Mrs. Hoggins. By social usage the widow of a peer, 
marrying a commoner, may, if she choose, keep her title. Lady 
Glenmire showed her sound sense by assuming her husband’s 
name as well as his position. 

169, 7 — cabalistic. Having a private or mystic sense. 

169, 27 — Congou, Souchong. Cheap black teas. 

169, 28 — Gunpowder. The best green tea. 

— Pekoe. A fine black tea. 

161, 13 — train-oil. Oil tried out from the blubber of the 
right whale. 

162, 20 — Old Hundredth. A celebrated tune set in England 
about the middle of the sixteenth century to Kethe’s version 
of the One Hundredth Psalm, and marked “Old Hundredth” 
in Tate and Brady’s new version in 1696. It is often sung $o 
the Doxology. 

167, 27 — Baron Munchausen. (Pron. almost mink how' zen.) 
A reference to a popular collection of grotesquely impossible 
stories, “Munchausen’s Travels,” written about the close of 
the eighteenth century by R. E. Rapse, a German settled in 
London. It is a parody on travellers’ tales. 

167, 29 — Rangoon. The capital of Lower Burmah, taken 
by the British in 1824; subsequently lost, and regained per- 
manently in 1852.' 


NOTES 


199 


168, 19 — nabob. An Englishman returned from India after 
having acquired a large fortune there. The original meaning 
is a governor of a town or district in India. 


CHAPTER XVI 

169, 15 — Sindbad the Sailor. A character in “The Arabian 
Nights.” He was a merchant of Bagdad who acquired great 
wealth by his personal exertions; he tells the story of his seven 
marvellous voyages. 

170, 7 — Father of the Faithful. A title applied by Moham- 
medans to the Caliph. 

171, 36 — negus. A mixture of wine, especially port or 
sherry, with hot water, sweetened and flavored. 

174, 19 — King of Delhi. Delhi (pron. del' e) was the capital 
of the great Mohammedan empire of Northern India. It had 
a king as late as the Indian mutiny of 1887. 

— Rajah of Oude. The native prince of the kingdom of 
Oude, annexed to British India, 1856. 

174, 28 — Preston Guild. The Preston Guild, or company, of 
merchants, has held bi-decennial festivals since 1329, the earliest 
on record. The town is in Lancashire, twenty-one miles N. E. 
of Liverpool. (International Encyclopaedia.) 

176, 23 — a cherubim. The humor is added to by the use of 
the plural form -im as a singular. 

176, 34 — Dissenters. Those who dissent or separate them- 
selves from the established Church of England. Mrs. Gaskell 
herself was a Dissenter, a Unitarian. 


APPENDIX 

I.— REVIEW QUESTIONS 

The mature mind usually puts the question; the child or 
adolescent mind answers it. Often there is a great gulf be- 
tween these two. The truth teachers should daily try to 
impress on themselves is that the pupil should answer out 
of his own experience, not out of that of the teacher or 
literary critic. The mature mind reads its past life into every 
paragraph of literature. The child takes out of the text only 
so much as it has been prepared to grasp. The pupil, also, 
gets out according to what he puts in. We must be critical 
of the student, yet, like Mrs. Gaskell with her Cranfordians, 
let our sense of his shortcomings be tempered with sympathy 
for his inexperience. The following suggestions are offered for 
the use of teacher and student : 

1. Speak at some length on Mrs. Gaskell ’s life, touching on 
the following points: 

(a) Childhood. 

( b ) Education and travel. 

(c) Married life and the exciting force which made her a 

writer. 

( d ) Works other than “Cranford.” 

(e) Friends. 

(/) Influence of her life and works. 

2. What is the setting of “Cranford”? 

3. Compare the reality of Cranford as a place with that of 
Raveloe, Bracebridge Hall, De Coverley Hall, Rotherwood, 
Auburn. 

4. How is unity secured in “Cranford”? 

5. Is plot a means to an end or an end in itself? Is there 
sufficient plot in this novel? 

6. What characters stand out most clearly in this book? 

7. The earlier history of the Jenkyns family is given in the 

200 


APPENDIX 


201 


love letters. Make an imaginary picture of the family on one 
of these evenings when Peter brought young Holbrook home 
to dinner. 

8. Tell Miss Matty’s love story. Does it end artistically? 
Discuss your answer. 

9. Three stories with happy endings grace the book. Which 
are they? 

10. How is Peter first mentioned? Tell his story. 

11. Trace the workings of the Cranford mind through “the 
panic” — its fears, its surmises, its exaggerations, its final ex- 
planations. 

12. Give the history of the Brunoni family. 

13. The Cranfordians in keeping up appearances practise 
self-deception. Give examples. Is this self-deception good 
or bad? Explain yourself. 

14. Miss Jenkyns and Captain Brown seriously differed in 
their literary preferences. Discuss at some length the favorite 
author of each. 

15. Name the men who at various times enter this strong- 
hold of the Amazonians. Characterize each of these intruders 
from the point of view of Deborah Jenkyns, of Mary Smith, of 
Peter Jenkyns after his return from India. 

16. What is a snob? Name an example met in your general 
reading. Give reasons for or against the statement that Mrs. 
Jamieson is the Cranford snob. 

17. Narrate the manner in which Miss Matty’s friends secretly 

came to her assistance. f 

18. What is humor? List the humorous incidents in “ Cran- 
ford.” Which appeal to you most strongly? 

19. Compare the humor here with that in George Eliot’s 
Rainbow Inn chapter. 

20. What is pathos? Select three good examples. 

21. Recall an example of pathos in “Silas Marner.” Com- 
pare its quality with that of your instances. 

22. In what respects is “Cranford” true to life? 

23. Should you say that Mrs. Gaskell wrote “ Cranford ” with 
a purpose? 

24. Compare Mrs. Gaskell ’s study of her characters with 
George Eliot’s analysis of hers. Touch on the use of author’s 
comment, value of the dialogues, type of characters presented, 
motive each has in her character as presented, and the au- 
thor’s success with each characterization. 


202 CRANFORD 

25. Compare Goldsmith’s “Vicar of Wakefield” with “Cran- 
ford” as to: 

(а) Plot. 

(б) Style; (1) idyllic spirit. 

(2) humor. 

(c) Presentation of rustic life. 

(d) Portrayal of character. 

26. Mrs. Gaskell’s English. 

Students of “Cranford” may occasionally come across a slip 
in grammar. Most of these occur in the dialogue, however, 
and are perfectly legitimate because even those aristocratic 
ladies made the mistakes common to the Cheshire tongue of 
the middle nineteenth century. In the author’s comment of 
Chapter I we read: “ As everybody had this rule in their minds,” 
and “Each with a candle-lighter in our hands.” Occasionally 
an expression such as “different to,” or a superlative used in 
comparing two things, or an unrelated participle, occurs. 
Thoroughly as teacher and student enjoy these unparalleled 
bits of Cheshire life, no detraction from their beauty need arise 
from the recognition of this grammatical “touch of earth.” 
Perhaps, otherwise, readers might find “Cranford” “faultily 
faultless.” 

Make a list of these deviations from classical English and 
comment in general on their effect on the style of “Cranford.” 

II.— SUGGESTED THEME WORK 

% 

Description : 

1. Topic: Character sketch of Miss Matty. 

Make a list of all the scenes in which Miss Matty figures 
prominently. After each memorandum jot down the character- 
istic traits displayed. Try to get at her ruling motive in life. 
Get at what is dominant in her personality. Begin your work 
on this expository theme by giving a big, broad, general im- 
pression of her character. Follow this by a sequence of the 
details that go to make that general impression. Be careful to 
use no narrative when you give your concrete examples of each 
characteristic. 

These directions will guide equally well in a study of any 
other character. 

2. Theme: Peter the Boy and Peter the Old Man. 


APPENDIX 


203 


In reviewing the chapters for information on this subject, 
consider not only the actions of each period in Peter Jenkyns’s 
life but the resemblances and differences in desires, feelings, 
and conditions. Arrange your material so that the points of 
resemblance as well as those of difference will stand out prom- 
inently. Two cautions must be observed in writing on this 
theme : 

(a) Observe proportion. 

( b ) Avoid narrative. 

Other good subjects for expository written or oral composi- 
tion are: 

(a) Mrs. Jamieson and Lady Glenmire. 

(b) Mr. Mulliner and one of Sir Roger de Coverley’s 

servants. 

( c ) The Rev. John Jenkyns and the present rector, Mr. 

Hayter. 

( d ) The Jenkyns’s home before and after Peter ran away. 

Letter-writing : 

1. A letter from Captain Brown to an army officer describing 
a card party at Cranford. 

2. A letter from Mary Smith to her father narrating the 
burglar alarms. 

3. ' Let each boy imagine himself a runaway in Peter’s posi- 
tion when the boat put out from land. Let him write a home 
letter to go ashore on the tender. 

4. Let each girl imagine herself a sister of a runaway boy. 
Let her write a letter urging him to come back. She may write 
in the person of Miss Matty or in that of Miss Jenkyns. 

Narration : 

Theme: The autobiography of Peter Jenkyns in India — not 
the one he no doubt told Mrs. Jamieson, but the quiet story 
Miss Matty heard. 

Make an outline definitely stating the exciting force in this 
narrative and giving proportionate space to the important in- 
cidents in order of occurrence. 

Other good themes for narrative and descriptive work are: 

(a) Miss Betty Barker’s Tea-Party. 

( b ) The Panic at Cranford. 

(c) The Cat and the Lace. 

( d ) House-Cleaning in Cranford (imaginary). 

(e) The Troubles in the Brown Family. 


204 


CRANFORD 


Argumentation 

(a) Miss Pole was not a typical gossip. 

( b ) The Rev. Jno. Jenkyns was not too severe in his pun- 

ishment of Peter. 

(c) Miss Jenkyns was not showing good literary taste in 

preferring Dr. Samuel Johnson to Charles Dickens. 

( d ) Miss Matty was not an ideal hostess. 

(e) This story would not have been more pleasing had 

Mr. Holbrook and Miss Matty married. 


INDEX TO THE NOTES 


Abaddon, 186 

.fEsop, “Boy and the Wolf,” 186 
Aga, 195 

“Ah, voua dirai-je, maman?” 197 

Amazons, 177 

American war, 188 

Amind, 183 

an-axing, 198 

Apollyon, 186 

apropos, 179 

“Arabian Nights,” 183, 199 
Assize Sermon, 186 
assize time, 184 
au fait, 180 

bakehouse, 180 
bands, 184 
Baron, 189 

Baron Munchausen, 198 
basting, 189 
Basto, 191 
beavers, 194 
Black Art, 198 

“ Black as ashbuds in March,” 183 
Blackwood, “Edinburgh Magazine,” 
183 

blind man’s holiday, 184 
Blue Beard, 181 
boards, 188 
bombazine, 188 
bona-fide, 193 
“Bonus Bernardus,” 186 
Boz, 179 

British Museum, 190 
Brunoni, 191 
Brunonian, 180 
Brutus wig, 180 
Buonaparte, invasion of, 185 
Burgoyne, General, 193 * 

Burke, “Peerage,” 190 

cabalistic, 198 
calashes, 183 

Carlyle, “Diamond Necklace,” 188 
Carmen, 184 

Carroll, Lewis, “Through the Look- 
ing Glass,” 196 
Carter, Mrs. Elizabeth, 185 
cassock, 184 
caste, 197 

Catholic Emancipation Bill, 191 
“ Century Dictionary,” 186, 190 


Cervantes, “Don Quixote,” 182 
Chambers, Robert, “Scottish Song,” 
196 

chapeau bras, 192 

Chapone, Mrs. Hester, “Letters,” 
184 

charges, 195 
Cheltenham, 194 
cherubim, a, 199 

Chesterfield, “Letters to his Son,” 
195 

chiffonier, 198 
Child, F. J„ “Ballads,” 194 
“Christmas Carol,” 181 
Chunderabaddad, 195 
church-warden, 193 
ci-devant, 188 
clerk, 178 
clothes-maid, 191 
cold-pigged, 194 

Coleridge, “The Devil’s Thoughts,” 
181 

comfits, 198 
Congou, 198 
conversation-cards, 190 
cosset, 183 
couchant 198 
county families, 190 
Cranford, 177 

Cranford ladies at cards, 189 
cut and come again, 195 

death-watches, 192 
Deborah, 180 

Denon, Baron Dominique, 193 
Dickens, “Christmas Carol,” 181; 
“Great Expectations,” 194; 
“Pickwick Papers,” 195 
“Dictionary of National Biography,” 
189 

Dissenters, 199 
“ Don Juan,” 196 
“Don Quixote,” 182 
double eye-glass, 178 
dragoon, 197 
Drumble, 177 
Drury Lane, 188 
“Dum memor ipse,” 184 

East India Tea Company, 198 
Edgeworth, Maria, “Patronage,” 
185 

egg-shell, 179 


206 


INDEX TO THE NOTES 


elf locks, 194 
41ite, 187 
envelopes, 183 
esprit de corps, 177 
Esther, Book of, 186 

fashed. 185 

"Fashion Book” of 1827, 187 
Father of the Faithful, 199 
Ferrier, Dr. John, "Of Popular 
Illusions,” 194 
fig for his heels, 194 
Fitz, 188 
fly, 182 

Ford, John, “The Lover’s Melan- 
choly," 193 
forte, 180 
frank, 185 
full-bottomed, 184 

Galignani, 181 

Garrick, 188 

general officer, 188 

"Gentleman’s Magazine,” 184 

George inn, 191 

Ghurkas, 187 

gig, 188 

gigot, 177 

gilley-flowers, 182 

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 182 

Good Hope, Cape of, 180 

“Good missus — good servant,” 197 

gown, 184 

Great Lama, 195 

Gunnings, 192 

Gunpowder, 198 

hair oils, 196 
half -pay captain, 178 
Herbert, George, 182 
Herod, 185 

Hibbert, Dr. Samuel, "Sketches of 
the Philosophy of Apparitions,” 
194 

Hogarth, 189 
Hoggins, Mrs., 198 
Holbrook, Mr., 183 
Honorable, 178 
Hortus Siccus, 181 

Imlac, 179 

India-rubber rings, 184 
India shawl, 187 

"International Encyclopaedia," 186, 
199 

Italian irons, 193 

Jack’s up, 194 
“Jock of Hazeldean,” 179 
Johnson, Dr. Samuel, " Rasselas,” 
179; "Vanity of Human 
Wishes,” 196 
Joint-Stock Bank, 183 


Kean, 188 
Kembles, 188 
King of Delhi, 199 

Lady-day, 191 
Lady Williams, 192 
"Lalla Rookh,” 187, 196 
Lamb, Charles, 189; "Dream Chil- 
dren,” 195; "Essays of Elia," 
195 

legerdemain, 193 
lilies of the field, 186 
living, 186 
lobby, 189 

"Locksley Hall,” 183 
“Lord and no Lord,” 190 

Madame de Stael, “Corinne,” 193 
Mahratta war, 187 
mal-apropos, 188 
mandarin, 189 
Manx, 177 

menuets de la cour, 191 
merinoes, 197 
mesalliance, 197 
Michaelmas, 191 
minniken, 191 

Moore, Francis, "Vox Stellarum,” 
191 

Moore, Thomas, “Lalla Rookh,” 196 

Mounseers, 188 

mulled, 194 

Munchausen, 198 

mutes, 194 

nabob, 199 
named, 182 
National School, 193 
negus, 199 

"New English Dictionary,” 180, 192, 
194 

nipped up, 190 
“No broth, no ball,” 183 
“North, Christopher,” 183 
Not all the elder wine, 194 
not in the way, 183 

oaf, 198 

Old Hundredth, 198 
Old Poz, 181 
old tapestry story, 193 
ombre, 189, 191 
ostriches, 190 
"Our Goodman,” 194 
overland route, 187 

Paduasoy, 184 
pass^e, 188 

patent of gentility, 188 
pattens, 178 

Payne, G. A., "Knutsford,” 191 
"Peerage,” 190 
Pekoe, 198 


INDEX TO THE NOTES 


207 


Pembroke table, 190 
Peruvian bonds, 196 
Philomel, 193 
physician-in-ordinary, 194 
“Pickwick Papers,” 179 
picture, 195 
pikce de resistance, 195 

P iece of poetry, 196 
itti Palace, 195 
“plumed wars,” 180 
pool, 188 

Pope, "Imitations of Horace,” 180 
Porter, Anna Maria, “The Hun- 
arian Brothers”; “Santo Se- 
astiani,” 192 
post-horses, 186 
pot-pourri, 181 
Preference, 178, 189, 191 
Preston Guild, 199 
“Proverbia,” 186 
puzzle-cards, 190 

Quadrille, 189, 191 
Queen Adelaide, 188 
Queen Charlotte, 192 
Queen Esther and King Ahasuerus, 
186 

Queen of Spain’s legs, 197 
quondam, 180 

Rajah of Oude, 199 
Rangoon, 198 

Raphael, “Madonna della Sedia,” 
195 

Rasselas, 179 
receipt, 188 
rector, 179 
reel of cotton, 191 
Repplier, Agnes, “When Lalla 
Rookb was Young,” 196 
“Rose Garden,” 192 
Rowland’s Kalydor, 196 
Rubric, 197 

Sadi, “Rose Garden,” 192 
sadly off her food, 183 
Salisbury Plain, 190 
Sam Weller, 179 
Saracen’s-head turban, 191 
sarsanet, 182 
savoir faire, 190 
Savoy biscuits, 189 
Scandinavian prophetess, 181 
Scotch baron, 190 
Scotch pebbles, 190 
Scott, ,r Rob Roy,” 197 
sedan-chair, 178 
seed-cake, 189 
sent to Coventry, 178 


servants’ hall, 178 
sesquipedalian, 185 
shovel-hat, 186 
Shrewsbury, 186 
Siddons, Mrs., 188 
Signor, 191 
Signora, 195 
Sindbad, the Sailor, 199 
Souchong, 198 
sour grapeism, 178 
Southey, “The Devil’s Walk,” 
181 

Spadille, 191 
Spartans, 177 

Spenser, “Faerie Queene,” 181 
spillikins, 193 
spinnet, 179 
stawed, 197 

“St James Chronicle,” 186 
“St. James Evening Post,” 186 
Stonehenge, 190 
style, Louis Quatorze, 190 

tabooed, 178 

Tennyson, 183; “The Gardener’s 
Daughter,” 183 
“Thaddeus of Warsaw,” 192 
three-piled, 181 
“Tibbie Fowler,” 196 
till, 196 

Tintock Tap, 196 
Tinwald Mount, 177 
Tonquin bean, 184 
train-oil, 198 
turbans, 187, 191 
two wine glasses, 181 
Tyler, Miss, 177 
Tyrrell, Sir Walter, 195 

universal shop, 188 
use of the globes, 197 

valiance, 193 
vamped-up, 195 
videlicet, 194 
virago, 194 

Walsh, “Handy Book of Literary 
Curiosities,” 197 
weir, 186 
weird tales, 182 
Weller, Sam, 179 
welly, 197 

“Where nae man should be,” 193 

wildfire, 193 

Williams, Lady, 192 

winding sheets, 192 

Witch of Endor, 192 

Wombwell, 191 












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